


Feather and Thorn

by Sauronix



Category: Suikoden V
Genre: Confinement, Crossdressing, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Imprisonment, M/M, Nagarea, Sexual Content, Smoking, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One month after the end of the Sun Rune War, the Sun Palace strikes up an uneasy alliance with the Nagarea Theocracy. Rahal goes undercover as the daughter of a Lelcar merchant to spy on the peace mission — but he doesn't realize that his new assignment has placed him in the crosshairs of a ruthless, sadistic zealot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This fic is unrevised, unbeta'd, and largely written by the seat of my pants on a chapter-by-chapter basis. Continuity may be off.

Rahal rose early in the morning, as he always did, at that magic hour before the dark slipped away and the violet streaks of dawn bled into the eastern skies. 

He knew his room well enough now that he could move through it unaided by light. From his armoire, he retrieved the clothing he’d left there the night before, expressly for this purpose: his favourite riding shirt, a faded, shapeless bag of off-white cotton he’d owned since he was sixteen years old, and an equally weathered pair of leather riding breeches. He shrugged into the shirt and tucked the tails—deliberately, as he did with everything in his life—into the back of his pants. 

Outside, in the hallway, all was eerily silent. The rest of the Dragon Cavalry slumbered on, oblivious to the movements of their commander. 

Which was just the way he wanted it.

He stopped at the pump and splashed some water onto his face, cupped some in his hands and drank from it, before he continued on his way to the stables. 

The dragon horses slept, too, hardly stirring when the hay crunched under his boots. But Flail was ready for him, accustomed to this morning ritual they’d been practicing for a little more than three weeks now. She nickered as he opened the gate to her pen, nipping gently at his sleeve when he reached out to stroke her mane. 

“Morning, girl,” he whispered as he touched his forehead to hers.

He saddled her briskly and led her from the castle, quiet but for the steady clip-clop of her hooves on the cobbled street. All around him, the houses and businesses of Sauronix were shuttered; even Rania’s windows were dark, and he’d never known her to keep normal hours. There was a loneliness to his city’s streets at this hour, a sense that everyone had turned their backs to him, that he was standing outside their lives and looking in. 

But there was a power to being alone out here, too. There was freedom. 

When they reached the city gates, Rahal swung himself up into the saddle, and Flail took off at a gallop. He laughed, for once in unadulterated delight, as the wind rushed through his unbound hair, as city gave way to countryside and the tall grasses waved and swelled around his knees. Ahead, the sun broke at last above the horizon, its red light bleeding through the wisps of cloud that dotted the sky.

Now that he was commander, this precious hour was the only time he had to himself. His days were ordered according to the needs of others—recruits, suppliers, advisers, flutists, armorers, blacksmiths, stable-hands, dragon horse keepers, the cook, his sister, the cavalry’s lawyers, and gods above knew who else—to the point where he hardly had time to take manage his own life. 

And it was in quite the sorry state indeed.

For the first time in his twenty-eight years, he felt truly alone. After turning the command over to Rahal, Craig had wasted no time in packing his bags and leaving—on amicable terms, of course—for lands unknown. And Roog had done the same, only his departure was less than cheerful. He’d had a few scathing words for Rahal, words that pained him to recall—choice among them _You son of a bitch_ and _I don’t even know you anymore_ —before he’d sullenly loaded his few belongings into saddlebags and ridden out for Sol-Falena without so much as a goodbye. He was probably still sulking somewhere in the Sun Palace, nursing his imaginary wounds. Roog was rarely unkind, least of all to him, and so his words had cut Rahal to the quick.

And then there was Rania, who, despite her ability to read people, needed more care than she could ever give in return. Talking to her felt at times like shouting into an abyss. There was seldom any meaningful response. 

He’d always been an independent child, had grown into a man comfortable with his own company, but he’d also always had Roog’s friendship, and Craig’s guidance. And to be without either now, when he needed their support more than ever… well, he felt lost. 

Flail slowed to a stop at the crest of a hill overlooking Sauronix, allowing Rahal to dismount. With his hands tucked into his armpits, hugging himself against the wind, he stood looking down at his city. Her streets were coming alive at last. He could see the first tendrils of smoke curling forth from chimneys, could almost hear the clatter of shutters opening and the crack of wooden wheels bearing wagons and carts along cobbled lanes. 

His hour was up; it was time to go back. He ran his hand through Flail’s soft mane and sighed.

“Come on, girl,” he said, taking hold of her reins. “We’ll get through this day together.”

 

*

 

Some mornings, Roog wondered if he would ever get used to waking up in Sol-Falena. And on this morning in particular, he lay on his back in bed, one sun-browned arm folded behind his head, just listening to the sounds and smelling the smells of the Sun Palace. The place was sterile, he thought. Too clean. Too cold. Too… genteel. He often found himself longing for the scent of fresh-cut grass that permeated every corner of Sauronix—the smell of the country, the smell of home. 

 _Get it together_ , he told himself, as he always did when he found himself missing Sauronix. _You can’t go back. This is your home now._

With a groan, he pulled himself upright, shaking his head of any lingering grogginess. He began to cast about for his pants, had only just laid his hands on them when a knock came at the door.

“Just a minute,” he hollered.

“Okay!” said a chipper voice from the other side of the door, just seconds before it burst open and Miakis trotted in.

Roog yelped and dragged his blanket over his lap. “Hell! What part of ‘just a minute’ don’t you understand?!”

“Oh, relax,” she said, flopping down on the foot of the bed, seemingly without a care that he was stark-ass nude. She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at him. “It’s not like I’ve never seen you naked before. I used to scale the walls of the bath with Nifsara to spy on all the boys, you know.”

He sputtered. “Miakis!”

“Well, stop gaping like a fish out of water and get dressed,” she said. “The queen wants to see us both in her chambers, posthaste.”

“Then do you mind leaving so I can get dressed?” he demanded.

“But I’m comfortable here,” she said, blinking at him in the mock-innocent way that had always driven him mad. “Better do it quick. We don’t want to keep Lym waiting. You know how she gets.”

He glared at her, and she smiled back broadly. He’d never in his life met such an insufferable shit-disturber, and though he’d gotten used to her antics over the past year (had, in fact, managed to stop stuttering every time he spoke to her) there was something unnerving about the power she still had over him.

And there was something thrilling about it, too.

When he realized she wasn’t going anywhere, he rolled his eyes and dragged his pants on under the blanket. Only then did he rise, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his feet into his favourite pair of beaten leather boots. He laced them quickly, refusing to meet her gaze.

“You know, you were one ugly kid,” she said, from where she was still sprawled across his bed. “Your eyes were too big for your head and your teeth were totally crooked. You were kind of painful to look at, actually.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, clasping his cloak at the base of his throat. “You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”

She pushed herself up off the bed, laughing. “You filled out nicely, though. I’m just saying… knowing how ugly you were makes me appreciate all the more how well you turned out.”

And before he could respond, she was out the door.

He trailed behind her through the halls of the Sun Palace, for once too caught up in his own thoughts to really notice his surroundings. She’d flirted with him before, but it had always been playful, bordering on innocent, enough so that he’d dismissed it out of hand. She’d never outright admitted attraction to him, nor looked at him with those eyes that, despite her words, were for once completely devoid of mockery. 

But there was little time to dwell on it. They entered the throne room together and found Queen Lymsleia waiting for them. She was flanked on either side by her brother, Prince Freyjadour, and Lyon, both of them looking grim. 

“Your Majesty!” Miakis saluted, tapping her fist once against her chest. “What’s the news?”

“Oh, Miakis, I’m glad you’re here,” Lymsleia said, her voice bordering on flustered, and Roog was reminded again how very young she was. “We’ve received a message from Nagarea. They—“

Roog started. “Nagarea? What the hell do they want?”

“They—oh, maybe it would be better if Freyjadour explained. Brother?”

Freyjadour stepped forward, pulling a piece of folded parchment from where it was tucked under his belt. He handed it to Roog. “It looks like they want to enter trade negotiations,” he said. “They want to send a representative here next month to discuss terms.”

Roog unfolded the message with such haste that he nearly tore it in half, his eyes scanning the neat, slanted print that punctuated the page. _We understand you’re to have a meeting with other heads of state next month_ , it read. _We would like to humbly request an invitation to attend. Long have our two nations butted heads over matters that seem, more than ever, to be inconsequential. We believe it would be in our mutual interest if we came to an agreement. We await your response. Your servant…_

“No way,” he said, folding it again and handing it back to the prince. “Those jackasses are up to no good.”

“But Sir Roog, how can you say that for sure?” Lyon asked. “When was the last time Sauronix had any kind of contact with Nagarea? A hundred years?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he shot back. “Ideology like that doesn’t just die.”

“Ideology like what?” the prince asked.

“The kind held by people who would fight to their last breath just to see another species wiped out,” Roog said. He ran a hand through the bristles of his mohawk and exhaled slowly, shakily. “Look, I can’t be rational about this. I grew up on stories of the things they did to dragon horses, to the dragon horse people—my people.”

“I’m with Roog,” Miakis said slowly. “I consider Sol-Falena my home, but I was raised on those same stories. They weren’t pretty.”

“Then what do you recommend?” Freyjadour demanded. “Do we say no? And if so, what then? What if they retaliate?”

“I don’t know,” Roog snapped—and then, catching Miakis’s incredulous look, amended, “I don’t  know, Your Highness.”

The prince shook his head. “I just don’t see how it could be as bad as you think. We worked with Eresh during the war. Maybe their attitudes have changed in the hundred years they’ve been isolated beyond the mountains.” 

“Yeah, sure, we worked with her,” Roog said. “But we didn’t know a thing about her. We don’t even know what she was doing in Falena. She could’ve been scouting, for all we know. This is too risky.”

“But it could also lead to peace across the continent,” the prince argued.

“What does the queen think we should do?” Lyon interjected.

Frankly, Roog found it absurd that they would even entertain the opinion of a twelve-year-old girl on a matter as delicate as this, but he kept his mouth shut. He was learning that this place was unlike Sauronix in more ways than one. Back home, Craig and Rahal had welcomed his thoughts as valuable contributions to any discussion; here, they were unwanted.

“Maybe we should hear what they have to say,” Lymsleia ventured, her gaze flitting to each of their faces in turn, as though to gauge their reactions. “If we only let a few of them come here, how much harm could they really do?”

“Your Majesty, they tortured and murdered indiscriminately,” Roog said, struggling to keep his voice level. “Are we just gonna forget all that? Can we really let those things be bygones when we never made them pay for it?”

Freyjadour sighed. “I don’t think the queen is suggesting we _forget_ all that. Just that we file it away for the time being until we figure out what they’re up to. Right, Lym?”

“That’s right!” Lymsleia said. “As Mother always said, ‘know thy enemy.’ This is our chance to learn.”

As much as Roog wanted to dismiss her, he knew he couldn’t, not when she had Freyjadour in her corner. So he sighed in defeat and said, “We’ll need a plan, then, if we want to get information out of them. And we need to be smart about it. But I’m warning you, they’re up to no good.”

“A spy?” Miakis mused.

“Could do,” he said uneasily.

“It’ll require a little more thought,” Lyon said. “Maybe we should brainstorm to ourselves a bit, and regroup in a few days to talk about ideas? In the meantime, we can send an invitation to the Nagarist dignitaries.”

Freyjadour nodded. “I can get behind that. Dismissed!”

 

*

 

At dusk, Roog met Miakis in the castle courtyard, deserted now but for the guards that stood watch at the gates. When he arrived, she was sitting on a bench, one leg crossed neatly over the other. She looked as proper as Roog had ever seen her. 

He sighed and sank down next to her, welcoming the sensation of weary bones and joints and muscles as they relaxed, as they unwound after a long, hard day of training and mucking out Lance’s pen. It was a task most of his peers left to the stable boys, but with Lance’s volatile moods, he’d always thought it safer to do it himself. He probably he stank of shit and musky armpits, but if Miakis noticed, she didn’t let him know it.

When he glanced over at her, she fixed him with a wan smile. “Good day?”

“As good as any other,” he said, rolling his head from side to side to stretch out the kinks in his neck. “You?”

“The same,” she said.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. For the first time, he noticed how comfortable he was with saying nothing to her, with having her say nothing in return. He watched her from the corner of his eye, saw how tendrils of her cropped brown hair curled at the base of her neck, how her lips curved in that half-smile she seemingly always wore. And he remembered again how she’d looked at him that morning.

He sucked in a shaky breath and looked away. “Did you have any thoughts about what we discussed with the queen this morning?”

“I did, actually.” She uncrossed her legs and turned to face him. “If the Nagarists are plotting something, as you suggested, then we need to find out what that is. And we need someone we trust to get that information for us.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking Rahal,” Miakis said. “He’s never been—“

But Roog was on his feet in an instant. “Hell no. No way.”

“Look, Roog, I know it’s dangerous,” she said, rising to touch his arm. “But like I said, he’s—“

“I don’t care if it’s dangerous,” he said viciously, yanking himself from her grasp. “I just don’t want him here.”

“But Roog, he’s the only outsider we can trust,” she argued.

“You think you can trust him?” Roog’s laugh was bitter. “I hate to break it to you, Miakis, but he’s not the saint everyone thinks he is. He’s just as vile as the next guy.”

She was watching him now with an unreadable expression on her face. “Roog, what’s going on?”

But he didn’t want to talk about Rahal. Just the sound of his name was like a punch to the gut. Worse yet, he couldn’t put a name to exactly what it was he was feeling—anger, betrayal, something a little to close to sadness for his comfort.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Just let it go, Miakis.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You guys have been friends for twenty years. I’ve never known you to fight. You think I’m gonna let it go when you're telling me you think he’s _vile_? Come on, Roog, what happened?”

He sighed and sat back down on the bench. There was no use fighting her; she would harangue him all night long if he gave her half the chance. “He slept with Craig.”

“Craig? As in… Commander Laden?” 

Roog nodded wearily.

“Well, plenty of people fuck their bosses,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s human nature, and they’re both attractive men. I can see how it happened.”

“Thanks for your support,” he grumbled.

“Are you jealous?” she teased.

“Give me a break. That wasn’t my point.”

“Then what is your point?”

“Don’t you think it’s kinda convenient that Rahal bangs the commander, then gets handed the commandership when Craig retires?”

“Oh.” She scratched her nose. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But you know, Rahal is a good soldier. Not that you aren’t good! It’s just… everyone and their dog knew Rahal would be the one to succeed Craig when he stepped down.”

“Yeah. Stupid Roog never stood a chance, right?”

She frowned. “Don’t be unfair. No one thinks you’re stupid. And anyway, it’s not like you were left with nothing. You’re commander here.”

“Yeah, I get the table scraps,” he snorted.

“Oh, please.” She was looking at him with open disapproval now. “Some would say it’s a greater honour to serve at the Sun Palace. You’re protecting the queen, Falena’s seat of power. The Dragon Cavalry may have helped out with the civil war, but besides that, when was the last time you guys did anything important?”

He hadn’t expected her to understand. Once, she would have given anything to be a member of the Dragon Cavalry, but it seemed to him that living for so long in Sol-Falena had dulled her memory of the prestige that came with serving for it.

“I command a unit of the Dragon Cavalry,” he explained. “But Rahal has power over _all_ the units—including mine. Including me. I still have to answer to him.”

“Have you spoken to him since you left Sauronix?” she asked.

Roog shook his head. “He sent me a letter last week. I haven’t answered it yet.”

“What did it say?”

“Not much. He asked how I’m settling in here, what I think of the new recruits.”

There was a moment of silence. Then she said, “Is that all?”

“He asked if we could talk. He said there are things he needs to explain.”

“You didn’t let him explain when you first found out?” Miakis asked. Her brow was furrowed again, and he found himself irritated by her disapproval.

“No, I yelled at him and stormed out,” he said. “I left for Sol-Falena the next morning before he woke up. And stop looking at me like that—you weren’t there. You have no right to judge me.'

“Oh, Roog…” She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “I’m not judging you, but I know Rahal too. Maybe not as well as you do, but I don’t think he’d ever do anything to purposely hurt you.”

Deep down, he knew it too. Rahal could sometimes be unthinking with his words. In the past, he’d insulted Roog’s intelligence and judgement, scolded him for acting, in his words, “like a twelve year old child.” But after all, no one was perfect, and he’d always accepted Rahal’s faults as insignificant in the face of all the things that made him a good person.

But now, his wounded pride had a muzzle on his memory, wouldn’t let him remember how Rahal had held him until he fell asleep on the night his mother died, how Rahal was always the first to defend him when someone else dared question his decisions—how Rahal had been by his side for more than twenty years, sharing both the good times and the bad. 

“Maybe you should hear him out,” Miakis said. “No problem was ever solved by a cold shoulder. Bring him here, talk it over, and maybe he’ll help us with this Nagarea situation.” A pleading note came into her voice. “Just write to him.”

“I don’t want him here.”

“Gods, Roog, how long are you going to punish him?” she demanded. “You want to throw away your friendship over this? You can be so pig-headed sometimes.” She took a deep, calming breath. “Won’t you at least listen to my plan before you decide?”

He crossed his arms and grunted his assent.

“The only people at the Sun Palace who know Rahal are you, me, the queen, the prince, Lyon, Kyle, and Galleon,” she said, ticking each of them off on her fingers. “Let’s get him to come here and pretend to be a minor noblewoman from… from Lelcar, let’s say. He can get close to the Nagarists and try to get some information out of them.”

“It’s a good basis for a plan, but it could use some work,” he admitted grudgingly. “Let’s talk specifics. Whose clothes will he wear? What’s his excuse for being here? How will he disguise his voice? He might look like a lady when he puts on a dress, but he sure doesn't sound like one.”

She mulled it over for a minute, chewing her lower lip, then snapped her fingers. “Kyle. He’s from Lelcar. He can concoct a story, train Rahal how to act like a Lelcar lady, maybe even get some clothes from someone he knows.”

“I don’t know, Mi…”

“We have plenty of time. If we send Kyle now, he can get to Lelcar and back within the week.”

“And Rahal?”

“We’ll talk to the queen, see what kind of leave she can give him to come.”

“How can you be so sure she’ll even approve?”

Miakis smiled. “I know her better than anyone. She will.”

 

*

 

The letter arrived in Sauronix three days later. Rahal was in the training compound behind the castle, supervising the morning’s drills, when the courier turned up. With a salute, he handed Rahal a folded slip of parchment stamped with the seal of the Dragon Cavalry. Rahal’s heart skipped a beat; there was only one person who had the authority to send him a letter with such a seal.

Hastily, he tore it open, his eyes scanning Roog’s uneven scrawl.

_Rahal,_

_Her Majesty the queen has requested your presence in Sol-Falena. There are matters of state that must be discussed, matters that require your input. A royal summons is enclosed; please leave Sauronix immediately upon receipt of this letter._

_Yours,  
_ _Roog_

He read it again, feeling suddenly hollow. The letter held none of Roog’s exuberant warmth, no sense that there might be a reconciliation in their future. Nothing but a small square of paper with the queen’s signature and seal. 

He folded it up again and tucked it into his belt, motioned for his second-in-command, Saba, to attend him.

“Commander?” he said breathlessly as he jogged to Rahal’s side.

“I have to go to Sol-Falena,” Rahal said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Can I count on you to keep the Cavalry running smoothly while I’m away?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

Rahal walked him through his duties, though Saba hardly needed the explanation; he’d always been a good soldier, an even better student, and Rahal’s strict adherence to routine had made his education all the easier these past weeks. Everything he needed to know, he’d learned through simple observation. Rahal knew he’d be leaving the Cavalry in good hands while he was away. 

After, he sent word to the stables to saddle Flail, then retreated to his room to start packing. He absently threw shirts, breeches, undershorts into his travel trunk, his thoughts creeping back to the letter Roog had sent. He wondered what he would find when he arrived in Sol-Falena, and whether Roog would even speak to him. Would he listen to what Rahal had to say?

Or had too much damage already been done?


	2. Two

Roog didn’t greet him when he rode into the castle. Instead, it was Miakis who waited for him, who rushed forward and pulled him into a rib-crushing hug as he dismounted Flail. He put his arms around her in turn, grateful for this simple human contact—contact he’d so sorely lacked since becoming commander. Her hair, soft against his cheek, carried the faint scent of roses. He closed his eyes and breathed it deep.

When he pulled away, she held him at arm’s length, her amber eyes studying his face. “You look… tired,” she said at last. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted. He paused, then added cautiously, “I thought Roog would be here to meet me.”

She looked away, turning, taking his arm to lead him up the castle steps. Behind them, a castle attendant followed with his luggage. “He’s been busy. Setting up a whole new unit isn’t an easy job, you know. He’s been sorting through applications, putting together training plans, writing up regulations. He… has a lot on his mind.”

“Indeed. I wish he’d said something to me,” Rahal said. “I wrote to him, but he never responded.”

Miakis said nothing, and it dawned on him suddenly that she knew about their falling out. She’d refused to meet his eyes, had made no comment about Roog’s odd behaviour. On the contrary, she’d covered for him, made excuses for his absence. He should have expected Roog would confide in her. But there was something humiliating in knowing she knew.

“He told you,” he said flatly.

“About you and Craig? Yes.”

“And what exactly did he say?”

“Rahal, it’s none of my business what you do in your private life. I’m not taking sides, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said.

“I’m not worried,” Rahal said. They’d come to a stop outside a door in the east wing of the castle, and he opened it, found a clean room furnished with a freshly-made bed on the other side. He took his luggage from the attendant and carried it over the threshold. “I just want to know what he’s thinking. He refuses to speak to me.”

“Maybe you should talk to him about it, then,” she said, closing the door behind them.

“I’ve tried. Miakis, please. What did he tell you?”

She sighed and settled herself down on the window seat.“He’s angry because he thinks you slept with Craig to… to get where you are now.”

“To secure the commandership, you mean?” he said.

“Yeah,” she responded. “But I get the feeling there’s something else going on. I told him you would never purposely hurt him, and I think he relented a little, but… there’s a deeper wound there. I don’t know what’s eating at him."

“Is that all he told you?” Rahal pressed.

“Yeah, that was the gist of it.”

He considered this for a moment, then said, “Miakis, I was seventeen when I slept with Craig. It was a one-time, misguided thing. It had nothing to do with being named commander.”

“He didn’t mention that part. I don’t think he even knows.”

“He doesn’t. He stormed out before I could explain. Miakis, where is he?”

“The training room,” she said at once. “He thought he could hide there. The recruits have all been dismissed for the day, so he should be alone.”

*

The training room was dimly lit when he arrived, with just two or three torches burning in their sconces, but he spotted Roog right away as he slipped into the room. He had his back to the door, and he was sliding bo staffs into their rack along the far wall. Rahal approached him so quietly that Roog didn’t hear him until he was just a few feet away. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing when he saw Rahal.

“So you’ve finally arrived,” he said, returning his attention to the staffs.

“Yes,” Rahal said. “I was disappointed to see Miakis waiting for me instead of you.”

“I’m busy.”

“That’s what Miakis said,” Rahal said. He stepped closer, trying to catch Roog’s eye. “I was hoping we could talk. About my… indiscretions.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Roog, you have to hear me out,” Rahal said. “I was seventeen when I did it. I was young and foolish, and it never happened again. Do you really think that had any bearing whatsoever on Craig’s choice to make me commander?”

Roog shrugged. “It might have.”

“Are you going to be angry with me forever?” Rahal asked.

He reached out, his fingertips grazing the rough cotton of Roog’s shirtsleeve. But at his touch, Roog shoved him hard, and he staggered back against the wall, the staffs clattering as his body weight fell on them. Shocked, he stared at Roog with wide eyes. It was the first time, beyond the sparring ring, that Roog had ever laid a hand on him.

The thought seemed to occur to Roog, too. Something flickered in his eyes, and he turned his face away. “Don’t touch me,” he muttered.

Rahal said nothing. He could only watch as Roog bent down to collect his belt and scabbards, as he strode from the room.

*

Later, after he’d washed and had his supper, he was summoned to attend the queen. 

Miakis walked with him to the throne room. She didn’t ask him the details of his meeting with Roog; he suspected she could read it plain enough on his face.

When they arrived, the prince and Lyon were already there, flanking the dais where Lymsleia was seated. Roog was standing off to the side with Kyle, his arms crossed, nodding along with the blond’s chitchat. He didn’t look up when they entered the room.

“Rahal, welcome,” Lymsleia said, rising to greet him. He bowed, but she came forward and took his hands, raising him up. “We’re so happy you agreed to come.”

“I could hardly refuse my queen,” he said.

Lymsleia giggled behind the oversized sleeve of her robe. “So gallant.”

“Forgive my sister, Sir Rahal,” Freyjadour said, laughing. “She gets excitable when we have guests.”

“It’s quite all right with me,” Rahal said. “But I am curious about why you brought me here.”

“Yes, of course,” Freyjadour said. He drew a folded parchment out of his belt and handed it to Rahal. “We received this letter from Nagarea earlier this week, requesting a royal audience with the queen to discuss trade negotiations.”

Rahal hastily scanned its contents. Through it was brief, the message was enough to set his stomach churning. But he let none of them see his disquiet, read the letter again as he willed himself to remain calm. When he looked up, he found them all watching him.

“What does Your Highness make of it?” Rahal asked, addressing the prince.

“I don’t know,” Freyjadour said. “We’ve discussed it at length, but can’t seem to come to a consensus. The queen is willing to give them a chance; others have expressed a strong opposition.”

Rahal took a deep breath. “I’m of two minds. My gut reaction is to keep them out of Falena.” He glanced at Roog, saw those hard brown eyes watching him implacably. “However… the atrocities they committed against the Dragon Cavalry occurred more than a hundred years ago. This could be our opportunity to learn as much as we can about them.”

Freyjadour grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. To be honest, we’d already half made up our minds.”

“Would my opinion truly have counted for anything, had it been in opposition to yours?” Rahal asked.

“Of course. I value your advice.”

Rahal suspected his opinion wasn’t the reason he’d been summoned to Sol-Falena, anyway.

“We have something to ask of you,” Freyjadour said, as though he’d read Rahal’s mind. “To get the information we seek, we need someone we trust to get close to the Nagarists. But that someone can’t be recognizable to the Nagarists as one of us. Do you follow?”

Rahal hesitated. He did follow, and he could’t fault the prince’s logic, but he also understood the danger of such a scheme. When he was younger, it was easy to enough to convince strangers that he was Rania; now that he was grown, his deep voice and masculine body wouldn’t be so easy to conceal.

“Your Highness, I’m not sure I’m the man for the job,” he said slowly.

The prince frowned. “Why not?”

“The simple act of putting on a dress doesn’t make me a woman,” he explained. “What of my voice? My unfeminine body? I realize I’m not built like Roog, but I still look like a man underneath all these clothes.”

“But you fooled those Godwin soldiers,” the prince said, “and you would’ve fooled us had we not known better—“

“Those Godwin soldiers only saw me from a distance, and they never heard me speak,” Rahal said.

“You’re convincing enough,” Roog interjected coolly. “If we put you in a dress with a long skirt and a high neck, it’ll hide everything that needs hiding.”

“And my voice?”

Roog shrugged and looked away. “You can be mute, or really, really shy. We’ll come up with an excuse to keep you quiet.”

 _Of course you will_ , Rahal thought bitterly. But he turned to the prince and said only, “Your Highness, I’ve spoken my mind, but I am, as always, yours to command. I leave the decision up to you. I’ll do everything in my power to help, should you decide to proceed with this… scheme.”

“Thank you, Rahal,” the prince said. “ I think the queen’s mind is quite made up. We’ll go forward with the plan… right, Lym?”

“Yes!” Lymsleia said. 

“We’ll talk about logistics tomorrow,” the prince went on. “Rahal, I trust you’ll send word to Sauronix that you won’t be returning for a few weeks? We’ll need you here, working with Kyle and helping us hammer out a plan.”

Rahal nodded slowly. “I’ll send word to Saba tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” said Freyjadour. “You’re all dismissed. Get a good night’s sleep; I’ll need you to be in tip top shape tomorrow.”

They dispersed. Rahal considered going to Roog’s side, demanding to talk like civilized adults. But Roog didn’t even look at him as he stalked from the hall. Instead, Miakis took Rahal’s arm and walked with him through the winding corridors of the Sun Palace, guiding him back to his quarters. 

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Despite their years of friendship, he had never thought to confide in Miakis. But he’d felt so alone these past weeks that he found himself saying, “I have my reservations. This scheme isn’t entirely risk-free, Miakis. And I bear the burden of it.”

“For what it’s worth, I argued against it,” she said.

They arrived outside his door. Rahal pulled out his key and slid it into the lock, but hesitated with his hand on the knob. “Miakis, if this goes wrong… if they see through our plan… it could mean war again. The threat goes well beyond my personal safety.”

She said nothing. When he looked up at her, he saw his own fears reflected in her eyes. She reached out and squeezed his arm. 

But he didn’t feel reassured.

*

Early the next morning, after sending a message to Saba back in Sauronix, he met with Kyle at a cafe in town. The queen’s knight was dressed down in a pair of black pants and a blue tunic that matched his eyes. He pushed a cup of coffee across the table when Rahal took the chair opposite him.

“Thank you,” he said, bringing the drink to his lips.

“No problem. You look like you need it,” Kyle said. He leaned towards Rahal, clasping his hands in front of him. “The prince filled me in yesterday. We have a lot to go over. Honestly, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well,” Rahal said, “I’m supposed to be a Lelcar noblewoman. I suppose it would be a good idea to come up with a backstory first.”

“Definitely,” Kyle said, nodding. He rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking, then went on: “Let’s say you’re from the Eastern Islet. They’ve always had a raging hard-on for the Falenan Royal Family.”

Rahal frowned. “Is that significant?”

“It means they’ve adopted a lot of Sol-Falena’s style and customs.”

“Ah. That sounds like the simplest course of action, then.”

“Yeah. Then it’s just a matter of finding you some suitable clothes, coaching you in mannerisms,” Kyle said, counting each item off on his fingers, “and helping you to act like a lady. Let’s start with our most pressing problem: can you talk like a woman?”

Rahal took a deep breath. This was the part he’d been dreading — making a fool of himself in front of his friends and former comrades-in-arms. “I could probably pull off the look, but I’m not at all confident in my voice. Kyle, listen to me; does this sound like the voice of a woman?”

Kyle studied him for a moment. “Can you try changing your voice for me? Just so I can get an idea of what we’re working with.”

This wasn’t the place Rahal would have chosen to carry out this exercise, but he supposed it would have to do. He cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts, then pitched his voice and said, “How do you do, my lord?” It sounded ridiculous even to his own ears, and he couldn’t help laughing in chagrin when Kyle winced.

“All right, you weren't lying,” Kyle said. “But we could probably work around that. Maybe you could just be really shy.”

“Roog said something similar last night, but I’ll need to be able to talk to him if we want to get information,” Rahal murmured. It was the first time he’d thought of Roog all morning; the reminder of his frigid silence hurt more than it should. 

“Yeah, and we don’t even know what kind of guy he is,” Kyle said. “Let’s break for now. Maybe you should go talk to the prince about how we’re going to get information out of this guy. In the meantime, I’m going to head over to Lelcar to find you some clothes. Let’s meet again when I get back.” His face broke into a roguish grin. “A dinner date, maybe?”

“Are you flirting with me, Kyle?” Rahal said dryly.

“Hey, can’t fault a guy for trying to get with a gorgeous Lelcar lady,” he said, laughing as he rose from his chair. “I’ll send you word when I get back. Good luck.”

*

When Rahal returned to the castle, the guard standing outside the audience chamber told him the prince was in a meeting, and that he should come back later.

So he milled the halls for awhile, and in his solitude, he noticed for the first time how empty the place felt. There was a bustle of activity all around him, of course—harried maids carrying loads of fresh linen over their arms, pages and squires passing by in their white and grey livery, nobles and lords awaiting an audience with the queen. But he didn’t know these people, and they didn’t know him; he might as well become one with the wallpaper, for all that those around him would notice his absence.

He hadn’t seen Miakis, nor any other member of the Queen’s Knights, either. And as for Roog…

Well, he had an idea of where he might be. 

He made his way down to the open-air training hall behind the castle, newly built to accommodate the influx of Dragon Cavalry recruits. It was as lustrous as the rest of the castle, with thick padded columns for sparring and a polished hardwood floor scattered with rugs to cushion falls. The recruits were hard at work now, and Rahal stood on the landing above them, one hand on the railing as his eyes sought out Roog.

He found him almost immediately. He was walking among the ranks, shirtless, his skin glistening in the midday summer sun and the cords in his neck straining as he shouted commands. The recruits followed his directions dutifully, their training staffs clattering together again and again in the otherwise disciplined silence.

He hung back for a few minutes, his eyes trailing his erstwhile friend, until Roog called for a break just after noon. Rahal watched as he grabbed a hand towel and wiped the sweat from his face and the back of his neck, and he was struck by this difference in his demeanour, how easy he was with his smiles as he chatted with his men. It was the first time he’d seen Roog happy in the month since he’d left for the Sun Palace.

The smile disappeared, though, when Roog looked up and saw Rahal standing there.

“Can we talk?” Rahal asked.

“We’ve already talked,” Roog said.

He moved to brush past Rahal, but with a speed born of frustration, Rahal reached out and seized his upper arm. Roog’s skin was slippery with sweat under his hand; he dug his fingers in, finding purchase on ridges of muscle. Roog looked down at the hand that restrained him, then up into Rahal’s eyes.

“I told you once not to touch me,” he warned.

“You’ve said everything _you_ wanted to say,” Rahal persisted. “But you haven’t heard me out. I’m just asking for ten minutes, Roog. Can you put aside whatever resentment you have towards me for ten minutes?”

Roog jerked his arm out of Rahal’s grasp. “Fine. Come with me.”

He led Rahal to his rooms just off the training compound. They were spacious and richly furnished (even more so than his own quarters back at Sauronix, he noted with just a twinge of jealousy), with heavy red velvet curtains and polished marble floors and plush embroidered upholstery on the chairs. Rahal saw that Roog had put his own touch on the place—his bed was unmade, his desk strewn with papers, and a sofa along the windows was equally strewn with clothing. He’d never been the tidiest person. There was something comforting in seeing that his habits had followed him to Sol-Falena.

Roog crossed to the cabinet behind his desk and poured himself a glass of rum, tossing it back in one gulp. He poured another, and only then did he seem to find the strength to look at Rahal.

“Your ten minutes start now,” he said, “so get talking.”

Rahal clasped his hands in front of him, unsure where to begin now that Roog was finally willing to listen. “I tried to explain yesterday that my indiscretions with Craig were short lived, that they happened when I was seventeen. It had nothing to do with me being named commander. I understand why you’re upset—“

“Do you?” Roog interjected. He looked down into his glass, and in the noonday sunlight that flowed in through the window, his hazel eyes glowed gold. “Why don’t you explain it to me, then?”

“Because you think I cheated you out of the promotion.”

“That’s part of it.”

“But don’t you see how that’s unfair to _me_?” Rahal asked. “My best friend thinks I don’t deserve my promotion. You know how hard I worked to get where I am. You always supported me, so why does knowing what I did with Craig change all that?”

“I can’t trust you anymore, that’s why,” Roog said. He swallowed his rum and slammed the glass back down on the cabinet. “You were always so holier-than-thou, so quick to point out all my fuck-ups. And you know what? I was fine with that, because I looked up to you. I thought you were perfect, and that maybe some of that perfection would rub off on me if I hung around you long enough. But now I know you’re just a hypocrite.”

At last, Rahal lost what was left of his patience. “Don’t blame me for your shattered illusions. That’s not fair, Roog. You made plenty of mistakes when you were seventeen, too.”

“Yeah. Little things, like forgetting to lock Lance’s pen at night. But you slept with our commander. That’s huge. Fuck, Rahal, if anyone else knew, they’d have grounds to challenge your commandership.”

“Then why haven’t you?” Rahal asked bitterly.

Roog shook his head. “You deserve it. But I won’t, because I’d feel pathetic. I have my pride too, you know.”

Rahal did know, all too well. It was the reason they were in this quandary, after all. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “If I could take it back, I would. But I didn’t know you’d react this way, ten years down the line. I didn’t even know I’d be in the running for commandership. I thought Craig would lead us for decades to come.”

“I know,” Roog growled.

“Are you going to be angry with me forever? What do I have to do to make you forgive me?”

“I don’t know.” Roog swept a hand absently over the bald side of his head. “I need time. I need you to get out of my face while I work things out.”

The words stung. Rahal nodded slowly, even though Roog was turned away now, his gaze fixed on something outside his window. Space wasn’t something that had ever really existed between the two of them—for the past fifteen years, they’d broken bread together, bathed together, fought together. They’d slept side by side in tents and cramped barracks. Rahal didn’t know _how_ to stay away from Roog. 

He had always seen Roog as the emotional one, the dependent one. But he was starting to realize that reality was quite different. While Roog seemed ready to throw their friendship away without a second thought, he found himself clinging to it like a lifeline. 

“I’ll leave you be, then,” he said. He was gripping the back of Roog’s chair so hard that his knuckles had gone white. “But there was one more thing I wanted to ask.”

Roog grunted. Whether it was a signal of assent or denial, Rahal couldn’t say, but he forged ahead anyway.

“Do you really want me to go through with this Nagarist plot?” he asked.

Roog didn’t answer for a long time. But just when Rahal was about to turn and leave, he said, “I advised against it.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for your sake,” Roog snapped. “I did it for Falena. If this goes wrong, it could mean war. The end of the Dragon Cavalry.”

“Yes,” Rahal said softly. “The Nagarists arrive in a week and a half. I’ll be working a lot with Kyle during that time, so you’ll have all the space you need to work through your… feelings.” He swallowed hard, not sure how to phrase the rest of his thoughts. He’d never been good at giving voice to his emotions. “Like you said, this could lead to war. But it could also be dangerous for me. If anything happens… I just want you to know I don’t want to lose you.”

He waited for Roog to say something. But Roog said nothing, his broad back speaking more than words ever could.

*

The following evening, the prince invited Rahal to dinner to discuss strategy. When Rahal arrived at the prince’s quarters, he found the table already laid out with more food than he could possibly eat: baskets of still-steaming baguette fresh from the oven, a platter of grilled salmon, heaping bowls of saffron-spiced rice, a tomato salad tossed with cucumber and avocado. He seated himself, and an attendant came by to fill his glass with red wine.

Freyjadour and Lyon were already sitting across the table from him. They were otherwise alone.

“Thanks for coming, Sir Rahal,” Lyon said. She plucked a piece of bread from the basket and set it down on her plate, then offered the basket to him. He declined. “How did your meeting go with Kyle yesterday? Tell us everything.”

Rahal quickly filled them in on his conversation with Kyle, leaving no detail undisclosed. By the time he was done, he was parched. He took a long drink from his wine as they mulled over everything he’d said.

“It’s a start,” the prince said.

“Your Highness, I’m wondering if you’ve received further word from the Nagarists,” Rahal said. “It would be reassuring to know what I’ll be dealing with once they arrive. Who are their envoys?”

Freyjadour nodded. “They’re sending a man called Zaia. From what I gather, he’s a high-ranking advisor to the Nagarist leader. They didn’t tell us much more than that.”

Rahal was discomfited by the lack of information—indeed, by the prince’s nonchalant attitude toward the entire affair. He had a hard time believing that any head of state would allow a former enemy nation to send envoys into the country without so much as a cursory background check, without collecting intelligence and thoroughly examining it. 

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” he said slowly, “there must be something more we can do to understand the Nagarists before they arrive. I’m not entirely comfortable going into this with nothing more than a name to guide me.”

“I hear your concerns,” said Freyjadour. “But this is what we discussed, isn’t it? We’ll use this opportunity to gather information in our own territory. It would be too dangerous to send scouts into Nagarea when we’re trying to negotiate with them, and besides, we can’t turn back now. We’ve already sent the invitation.”

Rahal silently spooned salad onto his plate.

“We’re here to discuss the next step of the plan,” Lyon said. “Sir Rahal, have you thought about how you’d like to approach Zaia?”

“I was hoping to have something more to go on,” Rahal said. “I don’t know what kind of man he is. Moreover, I’m not entirely sure what sort of woman _I’m_ going to be.”

“You could always do what you did in Gordius,” Freyjadour suggested.

“Indeed, my prince, but those were common men starved for female attention,” Rahal said. “According to the history books, the Nagarists are rather more rigid in their way of life. It’s difficult to say what effect, if any, the attentions of a strange young woman from Lelcar will have on this Zaia.”

“Rahal, we’ve done all we can do—“

“I know, Your Highness,” Rahal said. “If there was another way to get all the information we needed, I wouldn’t be here. I just wish we had some key facts about him… knowing whether or not he’s married, for instance, would really help me tailor my approach.”

“You’ll just have to improvise,” the prince said. “You’re good at that. I have complete faith in you.”

Rahal dabbed his mouth with the corner of his napkin, quashing the annoyance that was rising in him. Skill and preparation were his gods; faith, on the other hand, was a nebulous concept he had never relied upon to see him through hard times. He pushed back his chair. “Then it seems we have nothing more to discuss for the time being, Your Highness. I must excuse myself.”

“Of course, of course. I hope you know how much we appreciate your help with this, Rahal,” the prince said.

“As I said, prince, I am yours to command.” 

He offered them a half bow and took his leave. 

*

Two days later, he met up with Kyle over breakfast and coffee to go over the details of their plan. It was early yet, and the blond swordsman looked as tired as Rahal felt; his sunflower hair was pulled back from his pale face into a knot at the base of his neck, his blue eyes sunk deep in two bruise-coloured hollows. There was even a smudge of dirt under his jaw. But he offered Rahal a smile when he slid onto the bench across from him.

“I just got back from Lelcar last night,” he said. “I picked up some clothes for you and got an old friend of my dad’s to forge a letter of introduction. Your name,” he said, pulling a sealed document from the rucksack at his feet, “is Elaine. You’re the daughter of a middle class Lelcar merchant looking to climb the ladder by importing Nagarist wool.”

“You came up with all of this in just four days?”

“Boat rides are boring. I didn’t have much to do but think.”

“Thank you.” Rahal thoughtfully eyed the seal on the crisp envelope. “But why would my father send me? Why not meet with the Nagarists himself?”

Kyle laughed sheepishly. “I actually hadn’t given it much thought. The letter doesn’t state a reason. Just tell them whatever you want.”

“Illness? Passing on the family business?” Rahal mused.

“Either of those are good, as long as you keep your story straight.”

“I suppose we should discuss our plan of attack, then.”

“You’ll approach Zaia and talk about new trade possibilities, maybe even flirt with him a little,” Kyle said. “But gauge his reaction first. If he’s not receptive to that kinda thing, it’s gonna do the opposite of what we want.”

“Agreed.”

“Let’s get to more pressing matters, shall we? Your voice. Have you been practicing?” 

He’d spent the past few days working on it, in fact, and he’d managed to get it to a place where he didn’t sound too obviously male. His voice was still deep, but Rahal had made it lighter, breathier; with a little more practice, he was sure he’d be able to fool even his friends. Kyle nodded in approval as he demonstrated his progress.

After breakfast, they returned to Kyle’s room to sort through his finds. He’d procured five dresses—more than they would need, Rahal hoped—and each had been designed with floor-length silk skirts, long sleeves, and high necks that somehow didn’t look too matronly. 

“We have to make sure we hide the goods,” Kyle explained. Y’know, since you don’t really have ‘em. If he sees that Adam’s apple, it’s over. Same with the arms. But if we shave your legs, we may be able to show a bit of those.” He pulled a pair of scarves out of the pile. “We’ll use these to give you some shape. You know, in the bust.”

Over the next week week, they spent almost every waking hour together, finalizing his wardrobe, practicing his voice and mannerisms, studying Lelcar customs, playing with hair and makeup, memorizing his back story. He saw nothing of Roog during this time, and very little of Miakis. But he was so busy he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it.

The night before the Nagarists were due to arrive, he met at the bar one last time with Kyle, a glass of Island Nations rum in hand. Kyle was dressed again in his street clothes, a simple yellow tunic and black pants tucked into his boots.

“It’s all up to you now,” he said, clinking his glass with Rahal’s. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re gonna knock it out of the park.”

“I certainly hope so,” Rahal said. He took a sip of the rum. He’d never been much of a drinker, but the booze put a fire in his belly that soothed his nerves. “Thank you for all your help these past weeks.”

“Don’t even mention it,” Kyle said. “You’re the one who did all the hard work. I mean, I know you well enough now that you can’t really fool me, but a stranger? Absolutely. No doubt. They’ll never know you’re not a woman.”

Rahal laughed. “I hope not.”

“I’m serious. They’ll be head over heels the minute they see you. You have the look down. It’s just a matter of keeping your voice under control.”

“You flatter me.”

“Hey, I appreciate beauty in all its forms,” Kyle said with a shrug. “As it stands, I’m a little sad you’re not really a woman. I just wish I could be there tomorrow to see you pull the wool over their eyes.”

Rahal frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told anyone but the prince yet. Hell, I’m bad at goodbyes, but I figure you have the right to know. I’m leaving the Queen’s Knights. Tonight. My bags are already packed. I only stayed long enough to help you prepare for this operation.”

“But I need you to be there,” Rahal said.

“No, you don’t,” Kyle said. “You did this all by yourself. I just got you some clothes and told you a bit about Lelcar customs. That’s it. You can do this, man. Trust me.”

When they finished their drinks and rose to leave, Kyle drew Rahal into a brief hug. And then Rahal watched his retreating form until it was swallowed into the night, until he could no longer stand the knot of dread clenching in his belly.


	3. Three

The day Zaia and his retinue were set to arrive, Roog met Miakis in the castle’s great hall. She looked as nervous as he felt, though he’d never say it.

“Is he ready?” Roog asked.

“Almost. His makeup and hair are done. He’s getting dressed now,” she said.

Roog glanced around the hall, tugging absently at the cuffs of his shirt. He wasn’t used to the ceremonial clothes he wore, was even less comfortable in the presence of the dignitaries that were trickling into the hall. He spotted the paunchy advisor to King Jalat, ruler of New Armes, hovering by the hors d’oeuvres. Across the room, he saw a familiar face he couldn’t quite put a name to, only realizing, after several minutes spent racking his brain, that he must be a son of Skald Egan, so close was his resemblance to Bernadette. 

He had yet to see anyone who would recognize Rahal, though, and he was thankful for that. But still he was nervous, and not even Miakis’s reassuring hand on his arm could put him at ease.

“How long until the Nagarists arrive?” he asked.

“Lyon and the prince left to meet them about half an hour ago,” Miakis said. How she could sound so calm, he’d never know. “It’s a fifteen minute walk in each direction. They should be here soon.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “I have to go find the princess now. Will you wait here for Rahal?”

He grunted his begrudging assent, and she left for the queen’s private chambers. An attendant came by with a tray of champagne; Roog accepted a glass, and sipped it as he monitored the room. Very few people paid him any mind, which was just the way he liked it. He was there as the queen’s muscle, not to socialize, and he’d never been one for diplomacy. That had always been Rahal’s job.

 _And that’s why he’s commander and you’re not_.

He shook his head to stifle his conscience, and when he looked up again he found Rahal standing at the top of the stairs. His hair was pulled back into an elaborate bun, adorned with twisting ropes and braids and pearl-encrusted ornaments. His blue eyes were ringed with kohl, the corners dusted with orange powder, and he wore a simple, off-white dress that swept around his ankles, that cradled his throat. For a minute, his breath hitched — _runes, he’s beautiful_ — but then Rahal started his descent and he remembered himself. 

“My heart is pounding,” Rahal murmured when he reached Roog’s side.

“You’re not the only one,” Roog said, in that clipped tone he’d adopted for all his conversations with Rahal. “The prince and Lyon went out to greet the Nagarists.”

“They’ll be here any minute, then,” Rahal said.

Roog heard the tremor in his voice, and before he could stop himself, he offered Rahal his arm. Rahal’s eyes widened in surprise. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it, drawing Roog’s elbow tight against his side.

“I suppose it’s time to bring out Lady Elaine,” Rahal said. He sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders. When he spoke next, he’d taken on his female voice, a breathy, husky cadence that sounded convincing even to Roog’s ears. “How do I sound, Sir Roog?”

“Like a perfect lady.”

The hall’s outer doors opened then, and the prince and Lyon entered with their guests of honour. Roog drew Rahal behind a pillar, where they could observe the newcomers unseen. There were three of them, but Roog had a hard time telling them all apart—each had a shaved head, the crown cupped by a semi-circle of faded blue tattoos, and they all wore a plain brown robe sashed at the waist. As they approached, he was surprised to see that one of them was a woman. 

When they reached the middle of the hall, the doors to the throne room opened and the queen emerged, followed by Miakis. A hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes were suddenly on the Nagarists as they dropped into a bow. 

“Please, rise,” Lymsleia said, her crisp young voice ringing out in the silence. “I welcome you to Sol-Falena as friends.”

Roog watched the one in the front, the one who must be Zaia. He judged the man to be about forty, maybe a little younger. He was lean, though Roog suspected he hid a more impressive musculature than his robes let on. The skin around his jaw and cheekbones looked taut and papery, his grey eyes alert and probing, his thin lips tending more to a frown than a smile. He looked harmless enough. But the most disarming of men could also be the most brutal.

“I don’t know if flirtation will work with this one,” he said in Rahal’s ear.

“He’s a little monkish,” Rahal agreed.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll improvise and see how he responds.”

Rahal turned and looked up into Roog’s eyes, and Roog remembered then that he was supposed to be angry. He folded his arms and let his gaze slide, casually, away.

“Better get to it, then,” he said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

Rahal only nodded, turning to walk away. Despite himself, Roog reached out and caught his arm. Rahal looked at him in surprise. 

“Just be careful,” he said. 

* 

Rahal took several deep breaths as he crossed the room, steeling his nerves. He’d faced armies in battle before, had felt the clinical sting of a blade against his throat, but this was the most nervous he’d ever felt. Diplomacy had always been his strength; same with hand to hand combat. But never subterfuge.

He pulled out his fan to keep his hands occupied as he approached Zaia, waving it in front of his face in what he hoped was a coquettish manner. “Excuse me. I heard the queen invited some Nagarist envoys to this little gathering. Am I right to assume you are they?” 

He tried to keep his gaze level as Zaia looked him over, his face unreadable. “You would be correct,” he said. “And you are…?” 

“Forgive my lack of manners,” Rahal said. He folded the fan, tucked it into his sleeve, and offered Zaia his hand. “My name is Elaine. My father is a textile merchant from Lelcar. I’m here on his behalf, seeking out potential trading agreements.” 

Zaia took Rahal’s hand and grazed it with his cool lips. “I’m charmed. But I fail to see what interest your father might have in Nagarea.”

Rahal laughed. “I must admit, when I saw the clothes you wear, I was a little skeptical myself. But he’s heard rumours that your wool is the finest on the continent. I was hoping you could give me the truth of the matter.” 

An attendant passed by with a tray of champagne glasses. Rahal grabbed two and handed one to Zaia, who took it reluctantly. 

“Do you not drink?” Rahal asked, seeing his hesitation. 

“The high priest discourages the consumption of alcohol,” Zaia said. He sniffed the contents of the glass and brought it to his lips. “But since this is a time of celebration, I suppose one can’t hurt. Shall we?”

They clinked their glasses together, and Rahal watched Zaia sip his champagne. Despite his rigid introduction, he’d already started to loosen up a little, and Rahal felt himself relaxing, too. It was easier to make conversation with someone who was willing to converse. 

“Will you walk with me?” Rahal asked, gesturing toward the courtyard. “I’d like to discuss business with you, and I suspect the garden would be a more pleasant backdrop than these stone walls.”

“Your father allows you to discuss business in his stead?” Zaia said skeptically.

Rahal laughed again. “I live in a queendom. My father doesn’t see me as his inferior. On the contrary, he raised me to take over the business when he retires. It won’t offend you to negotiate with a woman, I hope.”

Zaia exchanged a meaningful glance with the companion to his right—the woman, Rahal noted, although he couldn’t decipher the meaning behind the look—before he responded. “Of course not. Please, my lady Elaine, after you. Izil, Nenet, remain here. I won’t be long.”

Rahal relaxed fully when they emerged into the sunlit courtyard. There were few people about—just a few guards, and one or two of the queen’s guests—and it was easier for him to concentrate on maintaining his disguise. Boldly, he took Zaia’s arm in his hand, ignoring how the other man stiffened at the touch.

“Izil and Nenet. You Nagarists have interesting names,” Rahal said. “But you’ve yet to tell me yours.”

“My name is Zaia.”

“Zaia.” Rahal considered it for a moment, rolling it around on his tongue. “Another good name. A delight in the mouth.”

“I can see what you’re trying to do here. But I’m afraid your flirtation won’t work on me,” Zaia said, though he didn’t remove his arm from Rahal’s grasp. “Romance with the opposite sex is just one of many things the high priest discourages.”

“And what of romance with the same sex?” Rahal teased.

Zaia shot him a sharp look. “Entirely forbidden. You must know, I’m sure, of our opinions on the Dragon Cavalry.”

“The Dragon Cavalry?” Rahal was unsettled by the sudden allusion to his people. “And what have they to do with romance?”

“Very little, but that the men lie with each other,” Zaia said stiffly. 

“A silly rumor, Zaia. If that were true, the people of Sauronix would have died off long ago,” Rahal said, desperate to change the subject. “But let’s not talk of the Dragon Cavalry. They keep to their owns lands and have little to do with the goings-on in the rest of Falena.”

Zaia looked at him strangely now, a cold gleam in his steel grey eyes, and his inability to read the Nagarist frustrated Rahal almost as much as it scared him. The conversation had gone entirely off the rails, to a place where he might give something away if he wasn’t careful, so he tried to steer it back in the right direction. 

“We were talking of wool earlier,” he said. He slid his fan from his sleeve and, nervously, began to wave it again. “My father is interested in establishing a relationship with a trading partner in Nagarea. I was hoping you might be able to put me in contact with a reputable producer.”

“Such a relationship would depend entirely on the success of my talks with the queen,” Zaia said, a cautious tone creeping into his voice. Rahal couldn’t help but feel, suddenly, that he wasn't the only one with something to hide. “If we fail to establish a trade agreement on a national level, then I’m afraid your father’s hopes will be dashed.”

“What could possibly impede your talks?” Rahal asked, feigning innocence.

Zaia narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to tell me that you, a merchant’s daughter, know nothing of Falena’s history with my country? I find that highly unlikely.”

“Of course I know the history,” Rahal said hastily. “I mean only that… well, that’s exactly what it is. History. Our queen is young, and willing to take risks for a better future. I can’t imagine she’d let a little bit of past hostility jeopardize that.”

“Our stance on the Dragon Cavalry hasn’t changed,” Zaia said.

 _Stop coming back to that, damn you_. 

“I confess I know very little about such matters,” Rahal said. 

“Oh?” Zaia smirked. He glanced up at the entrance to the palace; Rahal followed his gaze and saw Nenet standing there. She beckoned when she saw them looking. “Well, perhaps I can give you an education on the topic later. But for now, my lady, we must part ways. The queen awaits me.”

He bowed stiffly at the waist and left the courtyard. Once he was gone, Rahal sank down on one of the benches lining the path, his knees suddenly weak. He’d dealt with many intimidating men, both during his time as commander and before it, but there was something different about Zaia. There was something of the tamed predator about him; outwardly, he was demure, but Rahal sensed a calculated ferocity just under the surface.

When he’d gathered himself and entered the castle, Zaia and his companions were nowhere to be found, but he immediately spotted Roog and Miakis huddled together near the doors to the audience chambers. He started for them, but Roog caught his eye and shook his head sharply, motioning to one of the attendants. He spoke to him briefly, and then the man crossed to room to Rahal’s side.

“Sir Roog asks you to return to your quarters for the time being,” he said. He took a glass of champagne from his tray and handed it to Rahal. “With compliments.”

*

“You should go after him,” Miakis said. “Find out how it went. Maybe hammer out the next step of the plan?”

Roog drained his glass and set it on the tray of a passing attendant. He’d begun to feel a little warm, his head fuzzy. “Are you sure you’d rather not go in my place?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said pointedly. “I have to stay here in case the queen needs me.”

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll catch up with you later. Keep your eyes peeled.”

He weaved through the crowd—larger now than it had been just an hour before—and took the stairs to the cool, quiet hallway where Rahal was quartered. He’d been alarmed, at first, when Zaia returned alone to the castle, but the emotion had quickly made way for relief when Rahal followed a quarter of an hour later. Looking flustered, but otherwise fine.

He paused outside Rahal’s door, unconsciously tugging straight the hem of his jacket, before he knocked. A quiet voice from within answered; he entered.

Rahal, his sinewy figure silhouetted in the window, turned to greet him. His hair was still piled on top of his head, the rest of him still squeezed into the pinched waist of his full-bodied gown. His face was bloodless. “Roog,” he said. “I thought you’d keep me waiting longer.”

“Miakis was desperate to hear how it went.” Roog closed the door and leaned back against it, hands folded behind him. “Tell me everything.”

“He said Nagarea’s stance on the Dragon Cavalry hasn’t changed.”

He’d suspected as much, but never in his wildest dreams had he expected the man to come out and say it. 

“What were his exact words?” he asked. 

“Just that. ‘Our stance on the Dragon Cavalry hasn’t changed.’”

Roog began to pace, rubbing his stubbly cheeks with the pads of his fingers as he mulled it over. “Do you know what he’s going to say to the queen?”

Rahal shrugged. “He’d never say such a thing to her, if that’s what you mean. He can say it to me, of course; I’m just the daughter of a Lelcar merchant, a nobody in the grand scheme of things.”

It would be impossible to move forward with the plan without more information, Roog realized, without knowing exactly what Zaia had said to Lymsleia. Which was all just as well, because the thought of sending Rahal back out there to deal with Zaia had lost its appeal, had made him realize all the more clearly the great danger they’d put Rahal in.

“You have to speak to the queen at once,” Rahal said. “You have to tell her what I’ve told you.”

“I will, as soon as I can get an audience with her.” He reached for the doorknob. “In the meantime, just get out of that dress. I think that’s enough for today. 

“Roog, wait. I want to know what he’s said to the queen first. You’ll come back as soon as you’ve spoken with her, won’t you?”

“Yeah.” He opened the door. “And I’ll make sure someone brings you something to eat. It’s almost supper time.”

*

Another forty-five minutes passed before the queen concluded her discussions with the Nagarists. In the interim, Roog filled Miakis in on everything Rahal had told him, and they both waited, impatient, for the grand doors to rumble open and their adversaries to emerge.  

When at last they did, they were accompanied by Freyjadour and Lyon. Roog watched as Zaia bowed deeply to the prince, his brown hands clasped together under his chin in what looked oddly like a prayer, his body thin and pliable as a young shoot of bamboo. It was a runner’s body, belonging to a man who clearly valued endurance as much as strength—in many ways, it reminded him of Rahal.

But the bald head, the strong jaw, those reminded him of himself. So, too, did the stormy eyes, when Zaia turned and they met his own at last. A small smile tugged at a corner of the Nagarist’s thin lips, a smile neither warm nor polite. It was a smile of contempt, masked at the last second by another, shallower bow, before he moved off to mingle with the crowd.

Roog realized then that Miakis had her hand on his arm, restraining him.

“He gives me the creeps,” she whispered, as if in apology. Then she pushed forward. “Prince, we have to talk to you. Now. Do you have a few minutes?”

The queen was waiting for them when they entered the audience chamber. She was seated on the dais, clearly unruffled by her meeting with the Nagarists. 

“Your Majesty!” Miakis said, dropping to one knee before her. “We’ve spoken with Rahal. We have news. Important news.”

“The Nagarists still hate the Dragon Cavalry,” Roog interjected. “Tell me you don’t still plan to go forward with this trade agreement.”

The queen and her brother exchanged a glance, bewilderment clear in both their eyes. 

“Do you have any proof of this?” the prince asked slowly.

“Of course not. He didn’t write it down on paper,” Roog snapped. “Are you saying you don’t believe us?”

“Sir Roog, it’s not that I don’t _believe_ you,” the prince said, “it’s just that, without proof, what do you expect me to do about it? I can’t go around accusing the Nagarist envoy of deception with nothing but the word of a man who is _pretending_ to be the daughter of Lelcar merchant. And even if I could… what would you have me accuse him of? Hating someone is hardly a crime.”

He was right, and Roog well knew it. But still, the thought of Rahal all alone in Sauronix, so close to the Nagarist border yet far from Doraat and reinforcements—it troubled him. 

“Then what do you suggest?” he demanded. “You’re okay with sending Rahal back to Sauronix, knowing what you know? You say the Nagarists may not act on their hatred of the Dragon Cavalry, but you don’t have proof they won’t, either.”

“You’re right, we don’t,” Freyjadour said.

“What else do you expect us to do? Go rifling through their drawers? Beat a confession out of them?”

“Roog, calm down,” Miakis said sharply.

“I warned you all about this. It’s easy for you to tell us not to worry when you live so far away from the border. Your Highness, you can build a strong relationship with Nagarea, but that doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t change Nagarea’s attitudes toward the Dragon Cavalry.”

“I understand, Sir Roog,” Freyjadour said, an impatient edge creeping into his voice. “But I need you to think about this from our point of view. We’re trying to establish friendly ties with Armes and Nagarea, so we can bring peace to this continent once and for all. I don’t expect you to do anything more. In fact, I order you not to.”

“Then what about Rahal? Did you bring him here for nothing?”

“Sir Rahal can continue with his disguise, but only in a surveillance capacity. He’s not to go rooting through drawers or creating animosity,” the prince said. “Based on our discussions with the Nagarists today, we have no reason to believe they wish Falena ill. It’s Rahal’s job to protect the border, and if he’s half the man I think he is, then he’ll do an admirable job.”

The prince’s tone was firm, and Roog knew it would get him nowhere to argue with the right hand of the queen, Falena’s de facto ruler. He had but one option now: find proof, or else drop the issue altogether. 

Miakis followed him from the room. The dinner bell had already sounded, and the crowd had mostly dispersed. Roog took the stairs two at a time down to Rahal’s door, and when he knocked, Rahal answered, still fully dressed. His face was anxious, thin brows knitted over sky blue eyes.

“That was fast,” he said, stepping aside to let them in.

“Yeah. The prince says he can’t do anything about it unless we bring him proof,” Roog said. He sat down heavily on the padded window seat. “He basically told us to drop the issue.”

“Proof?” Rahal frowned, his eyes flitting from Roog to Miakis. “What kind of proof?”

“We don’t know,” Miakis said.

Roog snorted. “Go through Zaia’s drawers, I guess, in case he was dumb enough to leave incriminating letters lying around.”

“I could sneak into his room,” Rahal said slowly. “During the dignitaries’ supper tonight. It should give me enough time.”

“Rahal, no—"

“This is assuming Nenet and Izil go with him,” Rahal went on.

“Nenet and Izil?”

“His bodyguards,” Rahal said.

“I’m with Roog,” Miakis said uneasily. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rahal assured her. “If I’m dressed like this, he won’t be any the wiser, will he? And if he catches me, I can just say I wanted to talk privately.”

“What if his bodyguards stay behind?”

Rahal smiled. “Then they wouldn’t be very good bodyguards, would they?” He sat in front of the mirror on his vanity table. “When does dinner start?”

“It’s already started,” Miakis said. 

Roog watched him powder his face and adjust the pearl comb in his hair, a knot of unease growing in his belly. He’d seen Rahal take down larger men, stronger men, with nothing more than a chokehold or the calculated use of his water rune—but Rahal had also never gone into a dangerous situation alone. Before, he’d had the rest of the Dragon Cavalry behind him. Before, he’d had Roog to watch his back.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he snarled. He pulled the comb out of Rahal’s hair and flung it aside, yanked on his necklace so hard the string broke. Pearls showered across the floor. Rahal stared at them in stunned silence. “You can’t go. The prince forbade it. First you don’t want to do this, now you want to risk your life. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Do my reasons matter?” Rahal murmured. 

“No. Just take off the goddamn dress. You’re done for tonight.”

“Fine,” he said quietly. He unclasped his earrings and set them on the table. His rings and bracelet followed. “I want to be alone now, please.”

The silence that ensued was deafening. Roog glanced at Miakis and felt suddenly cold, hollow. She stood huddled with her arms crossed over her stomach, her hands cradling her elbows, her face shuttered. She refused to meet his eye. 

_Did I really just do that?_

“Sorry,” he said, to no one in particular.

“Please go,” Rahal said.

“You promise you won’t do anything stupid?”

“Yes.”

It would have to be enough. Roog turned on his heel and stalked to the door, stopping only to see if Miakis was following him. His last glimpse of Rahal was of a defeated man, looking impossibly small in his white dress, slouched in front of the mirror.

*

Rahal waited ten minutes, until he was sure Roog and Miakis were gone, before he put his jewelry back on and slipped out of his room. 

Despite his bravado, his heart was pounding as he stopped outside Zaia’s quarters. He listened at the door for a moment, seeking any sign of life within, but there was only silence. He lifted his hand and rapped quietly with two knuckles. When he was satisfied they hadn’t returned, he pulled a pin from his hair and quickly picked the lock.

The room was spacious and clean, almost sterile, and so silent and still that it put him on edge. He hesitated in the doorway, feeling for all the world that they’d somehow know of his intrusion the minute he stepped over the threshold. But he thought of the words Roog had spoken to him a week ago: _I thought you were perfect… but now I know you’re just a hypocrite_ , and he forced himself to take that first step.

He had to prove to Roog that he deserved to be commander. And maybe he had to prove it to himself, too.

He closed the door behind him and locked it again, his eyes sweeping over the room. Two four-poster beds leaned against the left wall, with a cot placed perpendicular at the foot of them. Three battered, canvas travel bags were piled in the corner, and on the desk lay a leather dossier, but there were no other signs of habitation. 

He hurried over to the bags and pulled the first one open, rifling through robes and stained undershorts, herb pouches and rune scrolls, prayer books and travel documents. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to incriminate, nothing to prove the sentiments Zaia had expressed to him that morning, not even in the prayer book whose contents he hastily scanned. Frustrated, he moved on to the other two, but it was just more of the same.

“This is ridiculous,” he murmured to himself, flipping open the dossier. There were a few sheets of paper within: a letter to Lymsleia from the king of Nagarea, drafts of a trade treaty, notes from the afternoon’s meeting in what must be Zaia’s hand. He closed the dossier again with a frustrated growl. If they had malicious intentions toward the Dragon Cavalry, he doubted they’d be stupid enough to bring written confirmation of it right into the heart of enemy territory. 

_Come on. There must be something I can use. Anything._

He flung back the sheets on one of the beds and smoothed his hands over the sheets. Nothing. Next he lifted the mattress and passed his hand along the underside. Then he did the same with the other, and the cot. Still he came up empty.

He froze, his heart leaping into his throat, at the distinct sound of the bolt turning in the door. The gentle murmur of voices came from the other side of the door; Zaia and his companions had returned. 

_Shit._

Panicked, Rahal glanced around for a place to hide, but the gap between the bed and the floor was too narrow for him to squeeze into. Instead, he leaned against the windowsill with feigned nonchalance, just as the door opened and Zaia stepped inside.

The Nagarist paused when he saw Rahal, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought we could talk more,” Rahal said, willing his voice to stay even. “About what we discussed in the courtyard this afternoon.” He hesitated, glancing between Zaia and Izil. “Where is Nenet?”

“She’s outside. I’ve asked her to stand guard tonight,” Zaia said curtly. He pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, and threw them down on his desk. Behind him, Izil closed the door, and Rahal couldn’t help but notice that he locked it behind him. “This is an intrusion. I understand, after all these years, that you Falenans aren’t familiar with our ways, but we consider it an injury when guests enter our homes uninvited.”

“Forgive me,” Rahal said, ducking his head. “I meant no offense.”

“It’s quite all right,” Zaia said. His cold eyes studied Rahal, that impenetrable gaze travelling the length of his dress. “Now that you’re here, there are some things we should discuss.”

“I’m glad you agree. My father—“

“I don’t want to talk about your father, my lady Elaine.” He smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Or should I say… Rahal?”

Rahal’s heart stuttered. He managed to stop himself from sucking in a startled breath, kept his body utterly still. He tilted his head, his face a carefully arranged mask of confusion.

“I confess I have no idea what you’re talking about, my lord,” he said.

Zaia chuckled without humour. “Drop the act. You Falenans may be lazy about collecting intelligence, but that doesn’t mean we are. We know all about you.”

“There must be some mistake,” Rahal insisted. “I’m not—“

Zaia snarled, grasping the collar of Rahal’s dress, and with one jerk of his hand he tore the fabric all the way down to his waist. The faux bustier they’d used to stuff his gown tumbled out in its wake, Rahal’s muscled chest betraying his false identity. Before he could react, Zaia seized the nape of his neck and slammed his forehead down on the desk.

Reeling, Rahal staggered to his knees. When he touched his face, his fingers came away red; the blood trickled slow and warm down his forehead, along the curve of his nose.

“Enough of this farce,” Zaia said. He shrugged out of his brown robe and tossed it onto the table. His arms and chest, lean and corded, were heavily tattooed. He cracked his knuckles as he turned to face Rahal. “We’ve had an agent watching you since you assumed the Commandership—and the Commander before you. I knew who you were long before I ever came here.” He motioned to Izil. “Hold him.”

Rahal tried to rise by his own power, but Izil grabbed him under the armpits first and hauled him to his feet. One hand went around his throat, resting firmly against his windpipe, while the other locked both arms behind his back. Rahal winced, the world spinning as he tried to focus on Zaia, blinking blood out of his eyes.

“I’m just not clear what exactly you’re trying to accomplish with this escapade,” Zaia said. He drove his fist into Rahal’s gut. Caught off guard, Rahal doubled over, gasping for air. “What would the queen say if she knew you were trying to sabotage her treaty negotiations?”

“I could… say the same to you,” Rahal wheezed.

Zaia cocked his head, smiling in puzzled amusement. “What are you talking about?”

“In the garden. You said…”

“Ah.” Zaia nodded. “You took my comments on the Dragon Cavalry as a threat. I guess I can’t fault you. They weren’t entirely benign, but still a far cry from a declaration of war.” He backhanded Rahal across the mouth, the sound of bone cracking on bone echoing in the empty chamber. “I’m disappointed. I was told you were more rational than this.”

Rahal spat blood. “What would you do in my place?”

“I’d bide my time.” He folded his hands in front of him and scrutinized Rahal with those hard granite eyes. Rahal forced himself to meet that gaze. “I’d observe. I’d gather information. But perhaps I’m being unfair. Perhaps this,” he gestured vaguely at Rahal, at his torn dress, “is your idea of observation.”

Rahal felt the heat rise in his cheeks, but he dared not look away. “You’re right. You’ve caught us out unprepared. We’ll be sure not to repeat the mistake,” he hissed through bloody teeth.

Zaia chuckled. “We? And I was under the impression you were acting alone.”

“I was,” Rahal said quickly, his heart leaping. He couldn’t let Roog, or the queen, be implicated. “I mean… I am. I have been." 

Zaia nodded, almost imperceptibly, at Izil. The hand around his neck slipped away and the warm body at his back left him. But there was no time for reprieve, because then Zaia slammed him back against the wall, placed his arm across Rahal’s throat, and leaned in hard. Rahal gurgled and clawed at Zaia’s shoulder.

“Is your queen involved in this?” Zaia barked.

Rahal shook his head. His vision went black at the edges, his blood roaring in his ears. He dug his nails hard into Zaia’s skin.

“Then why did she summon you here?” He pulled back a little, and Rahal dragged in a gasping lungful of air. 

“On other business,” he managed.

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not!”

Zaia threw him to the floor. He began to crawl, his head pounding, blinking blood out of his eyes.  He had to get out — to get to Roog, to warn him — but the ten-foot distance between him and the door seemed more like miles. He reached for it with a trembling hand.

Then Zaia’s boot met his ribs, kicking him onto his back, and he cried out sharply. Zaia and Izil stood over him, sneering.

“Hold him down,” Zaia ordered.

Izil pinned his wrists on either side of his head, and Zaia placed his boot on Rahal’s chest. Every breath was agony. 

“You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or you’ll be begging for death by the time I’m through with you,” Zaia said. 

“Th-there’s nothing to tell.”

“Izil,” Zaia said.

Izil grabbed the middle finger of his left hand and pulled it back until the bone snapped. Rahal screamed and thrashed, trying to wrench his hand away, but already Izil had grabbed the next, was breaking it too. Zaia knelt over him and placed a hand on his mouth.

“No screaming,” he said softly. “The only sound I want to hear from you is a confession. Are you ready to talk?”

He wanted to talk, to tell them the truth. It would be easy. So easy. But he thought of Izil breaking Roog’s fingers and knew the truth was not an option.

He shook his head.

“Pity,” Zaia said softly. “Break everything, Izil.”

Izil rose, letting Zaia pin the injured hand, and placed his heel in Rahal’s palm. Slowly, he ground downwards, and Rahal moaned, eyes rolling back in his head as his bones splintered. He felt himself slipping toward unconsciousness, and welcomed it. Oblivion would be peace. He’d be free of Zaia and Izil. He’d be free of his lonely life as commander. And maybe, just maybe, Roog would finally forgive him.

_Don’t be pathetic. This is nothing. This won’t kill you. It can’t._

Zaia slapped his face, jolting him out of the blackness. “No passing out, either, you son of a bitch.” He took the tattered collar of Rahal’s dress and jerked him up off the floor. Rahal stared into his grey eyes. If there had ever been humanity in them, it was long gone. “I know you didn’t do this alone. Tell me who helped you.” He shook Rahal hard. “Was it that meathead friend of yours? Roog?”

“He has nothing to do with this,” Rahal spat. 

“Are you sure about that?” Zaia threw him down again, as if disgusted to be touching him. “I think you’re just protecting him. You Cavalrymen have an unnatural affection for each other. You make me sick.”

Rahal laughed hollowly. “You’re unnaturally obsessed with us. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have some issues of your own to sort out.”

“Just get him up, Izil.” The hands grabbed him by the armpits again, hauling him to his feet. “Let’s see what his queen has to say about all this.”


	4. Four

Miakis didn’t say anything, at least not until they arrived at Roog’s room. And that was fine by him. He was embarrassed that she’d seen him lose his temper like that, that she’d seen him yell at Rahal like some out of control asshole. In his mind, he could still hear the pearls hitting the floor. He could still see Rahal’s stricken face in the mirror.

He poured himself a drink, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. Behind him, the door clicked shut. Miakis was silent. He felt her eyes on him. So he poured her a drink too, finally shrugging free of his jacket and letting it fall to the floor.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He held out the glass to her. “I was wrong to do that. I get it.”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t going to say anything. People fight, Roog, and sometimes best friends are the most vicious about it. It’s just uncomfortable to watch, that’s all.”

“I shouldn’t have done that to him.”

“Probably not.” She came to him then and accepted the glass. “Do you want to know what I saw, though?”

“What?”

“I saw a man who’s terrified for someone he cares about.”

Roog shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno, Mi…”

“I’m serious. We both know how stubborn Rahal can be. You’re worried he’s going to do something stupid, and it’s pissing you off. Trust me, I’ve felt that way before. I get it.”

He glanced at her. “You have?”

“Yeah. Of course. There are times I want to punch you out for your recklessness.”

He laughed, his first genuine laugh in days, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He’d woken up late that morning, after a restless night, and hadn’t had time to make it. The sheets were still tangled up. Tangled and cold. He imagined rolling into them with Miakis in his arms, her bare skin warm against his, her smooth legs twined with his own, as he had hundreds of times before. An unattainable fantasy, in days past, but he could make it happen now. He was almost positive she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

_For runes’ sake. How can you think about that at a time like this?_

“Roog. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Miakis set her glass down on his desk and sat next to him. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” He downed the contents of his glass and rose again, restlessly. “Shouldn’t you be with the queen now, at that supper?”

Miakis shook her head. “The prince went with her.”

He uncorked the decanter and breathed in the spicy-sweet aroma of dark amber rum. There was about half a glass left. He poured it for himself.

“Take it easy with that stuff, won’t you?” Miakis said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Roog, I’m not an idiot. You had booze in your hand every time I dropped by this week.”

Annoyance flared. “So?”

“So… there are better ways to deal with your problems,” she said.

“I’m not using it to deal with my problems, Miakis,” he snapped. “And it’s none of your business what I do in my spare time.”

She held up her hands to placate him. “Okay, okay, okay. I just know things have been rough for you lately, and sometimes people turn to booze when they get stressed out. I didn’t mean anything by it."

Roog snorted _._ Between the Nagarea situation and Rahal stabbing him in the back, drinking himself into oblivion didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“Put down the glass, Roog,” Miakis said. 

He gazed into the depths of that amber liquid. For the thousandth time, he tortured himself with the image of Rahal spreading his legs for Commander Laden. When he’d found out, he called Rahal names. Whore, asshole, son of a bitch, words that had brought tears to Rahal’s eyes — Rahal, who always kept his feelings close to his chest, who never cried in front of anyone, not even Roog. And Roog just hadn’t cared. He’d told him to fuck off, that he never wanted to see him again.

He thought about Rahal’s face, sad and pale and scared, reflected in that bedroom mirror downstairs.

“Shit,” he whispered. Why was he so angry? Why couldn’t he just let it go?

“Put down the glass and come here,” Miakis said.

He looked up at her. She was still perched on the edge of his bed, her eyes as serious as he’d ever seen them. She held out her hand to him. 

He went to her, and she pressed a kiss into his palm.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, just stop,” she murmured against his skin. “There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

She was beautiful. So beautiful.

She hooked her finger into his belt, tugging him down onto the bed next to her. And then she kissed his mouth. For a second, the breath left him, and his whole body went rigid. Fuck, it was happening. It was really happening.

She swung one leg over his lap, straddling him, pushing him onto his back, and he parted his lips for her. Their tongues met and he ground his hardness up against her. 

She broke away from him. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted this.”

“Are you kidding me?” 

“Well, Rahal’s been on your mind a lot—“

He buried his hand in her hair and pulled her into another kiss. There was no room for Rahal in this bed, not when he finally had Miakis in his lap, when she was insistently pulling at the hem of his shirt. He raised his arms to help her, sitting up so fast he nearly dumped her onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he said breathlessly.

“It’s okay.” She wrested the shirt over his head and let it drop onto the bed next to them. Her eyes climbed over him, hungry and shameless, and his cheeks went hot. “Your clumsiness is one of your more endearing traits.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just shut up.” 

Laughing, she threw her whole weight against him, tumbling him onto his back again. Her face settled in the crook of his neck, warm breath flowing over his skin. She trailed her fingers down the hard curve of his chest, grazing a nipple, before she slipped her hand into his pants. His breath hitched, eyes sliding shut. 

“Sir Roog!” A muffled voice from the hallway, accompanied by an insistent knocking on his door. “There’s something going on upstairs. You’d better come see! Sir Roog?” Another staccato of knocking, and Roog swore he'd kill the man for interrupting.

Roog sighed and let his head fall back against the bed. “Just a minute!”

Miakis climbed off of him and smoothed down her skirt, while he went to the door and tore it open. One of his cavalrymen was standing outside. He took in Roog’s bare chest, and Miakis hovering just beyond him, and he flushed to the roots of his curly blond hair.

“S-sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said. 

“What’s the problem?” Roog demanded.

“There’s a commotion upstairs. Something to do with the Nagarists. That Zaia guy, he’s demanded an audience with the queen.”

The Nagarists. Shit.

“Do you know why?” he asked.

“No, sir, but he seemed pretty angry.”

Dread bolted into his gut and settled there. _Rahal. What did you do?_ Without a second glance at Miakis, without even pausing to grab his shirt, he took off at a run, skidding around the corner and taking the stairs two at a time. He could hear yelling already, coming from the great hall, and when he burst through the doors, he found a sizeable crowd already gathered there. Most were still dressed in their finery, but others, it appeared, had crawled out of bed to witness — well, he didn’t know what yet.

He shoved his way to the front of the crowd, digging his elbows into people who refused to budge and ignoring the indignant cries that followed. He found the queen, ashen-faced, at the dais. Freyjadour stood beside her, one hand resting protectively on her arm, with Lyon just to his left. Before them, Zaia paced the floor, his neck and cheeks a furious red.

“We came here in peace,” he was saying, “with a hope of uniting our countries in friendship once and for all. How disappointing to learn it was a charade, my lady queen, all a charade.”

“I’m afraid you have us at a loss, my lord,” Freyjadour said. “We’ve been transparent in our intentions every step of the way. We did invite you here for peaceful negotiations—“

“Don’t lie to me.” Zaia took one threatening step toward the dais, shaking his finger at the two of them like an angry parent. “Your intentions have been anything but transparent, and we have proof of it.”

Miakis appeared at his side then. “What’s going on?” she hissed.

“I don’t know.” He glanced around the room, stomach churning, desperately seeking Rahal’s face in the crowd. But Rahal’s face was nowhere to be seen. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“What kind of proof?” Freyjadour was saying.

“A spy, prince,” Zaia said. “I returned to my room after supper to discover a little mole digging through my things. My clothes, my bags, my documents. Are you seriously trying to tell me you know nothing of this?”

The prince’s face went pale. He shifted almost imperceptibly to the right, to stand half in front of his sister. At the same time, Lyon’s hand fell to the hilt of her sword.

“It’s either that, Your Highness, or you’re saying you were unaware of a spy operating right under your nose,” Zaia continued, “and I find that very difficult to believe.”

“I assure you we know nothing about a spy,” Freyjadour said. 

“I’ll let you see him. Maybe that will jog your memory.” Zaia clapped his hands three times and shouted, “Izil! Nenet! Bring him in.”

His heart began to hammer. _Don’t be Rahal. Please. Let this all be a huge mistake._

The hall doors opened. A murmur went up and the crowd parted, and Izil and Nenet appeared with a white-clad figure slung between them. A figure in a dress that looked sickeningly familiar. A dress torn to the waist, revealing that the person who inhabited it was without a doubt male.

It was Rahal. 

They threw him to the floor. Zaia grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him upright, wrenching his head back so the prince and Lymsleia could look at him. His face was twisted in a grimace, with dried blood crusted on his lips and chin, with one eye swollen shut. A deep purple bruise had begun to surface on his throat. Roog’s stomach churned. What the fuck had they done to him?

The prince stared at him, the colour draining from his face. “What is the meaning of this, Zaia?”

“It’s as I said. He was in my room, uninvited, when I returned from supper. Except he was pretending to be a woman.”

Roog’s body went numb. Once, when they were seventeen, they’d been ambushed by a stone golem while riding in the woods near Port Spinacks. Rahal had only just drawn his sword when the golem swung a fist into his head and knocked him from his saddle, unconscious. They were alone. He’d never faced an enemy by himself before. 

He felt now as he had then, that keen blend of terror and the overwhelming need to protect Rahal. He could take the three of them on himself. He’d tear their fucking faces off with his bare hands. Hell, he wanted to do it. But when he took a step forward, Miakis clasped his arm and shook her head. He was as helpless as Rahal, so helpless he could scream.

_You idiot. You goddamn idiot. Why did you do it?_

“I know you know him, my prince, and I know you summoned him to Sol-Falena around the time you sent us the invitation,” Zaia said. “So tell me the truth. Did you ask him to spy on us?”

“I told you already, they didn’t,” Rahal said, his voice hoarse. 

“Shut up,” Zaia snarled. He yanked on Rahal’s hair again and Rahal cried out.

“Stop it!” Roog shouted. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t just come in here and smack one of Falena’s commanding officers around.”

Rahal’s blue eyes met his briefly before flickering over to Miakis, and he went very still. For his part, Roog poured all of his own feelings into that fleeting glance. An apology, fierce affection, reassurance. Did Rahal know he’d do anything for him, no matter how bitterly they’d fought? That he hadn’t meant any of the crap he’d said, back when Rahal became commander? He needed Rahal to know that.

“Ah, yes, Sir Roog,” Zaia said coolly, turning to him. “Rahal’s partner in crime. I should have known you’d speak up in his defense. If Rahal isn’t working with you, prince, then I guarantee he’s been working with Roog.”

“He hasn’t,” Rahal choked. “I swear it on my life.”

“Your life is worth very little to me, I’m afraid.”

“My lord,” the prince said sharply, “regardless of what offense Sir Rahal may have committed against you, I really must agree with Sir Roog. You should have brought this matter to me the minute you learned of it. I won’t tolerate the abuse of my men.”

Zaia’s eyes glittered. “And Nagarea won’t tolerate duplicitous behaviour from a so-called ally. If a war is what you’re after, we’re more than capable of giving it to you.”

“Under no circumstances do we want a war.”

“Then tell me what I want to know.”

A silence fell over the room. Zaia and the prince stared at each other, at an impasse, but Roog could only look at Rahal. His head was bowed, a curtain of black hair obscuring his face, one hand clenched tight in his lap while the other lay swollen and limp next to it. The sight of him made Roog’s heart ache.

The prince would never give up peace for Rahal’s sake, no matter how much he wanted to. And Rahal would never let him. Not in a million years.

“Prince,” Rahal said, raising his head. His voice was clear, unwavering, if not a little hoarse. “I apologize for acting against your orders. It was not my intention to jeopardize your trade agreement. I was only looking out for the Dragon Cavalry’s best interests.”

“Sir Rahal—“ Freyjadour began.

“Stop, Your Highness. My actions are indefensible.”

Zaia scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I can believe that the prince had nothing to do with this. But what about Sir Roog?”

Roog opened his mouth to reply, but Rahal cut him off.

“Roog and I haven’t been on speaking terms in well over a month,” he said. “He too has been a victim of my… duplicitous behaviour, as you described it. He didn’t ask me to do this, and I never asked him to help. He was as in the dark as the prince.”

“Then why is he so quick to defend you?” Zaia demanded.

“Because he has a conscience."

“Are you satisfied, then?” Freyjadour asked. “Can we consider the matter closed?”

“Yes. For now,” Zaia said.

“Then we will deal with Sir Rahal as we see fit.”

“If I may, prince,” Zaia said, and Roog’s heart dropped into his shoes. “Your innocence in this affair has been established, but Rahal is still guilty of crimes against my country. I’m afraid I can’t let you decide the punishment. He will be coming back to Nagarea with me.”

“No!” The words burst out of Roog before he could stop himself. “Prince, you can’t. They’ll kill him.”

Freyjadour grimaced. “My lord, there must be some other solution.”

“I must insist,” Zaia said.

“He’s the commander of the Dragon Cavalry, and one of my most trusted men. I can’t just let you haul him off to some prison in Nagarea.”

“Then there will be war between our two nations, I assure you.”

A buzz of voices, indignant and worried, went up around him, but Roog’s eyes were fixed on the determined set of Rahal’s jaw, the clenched hand that lay in his lap. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t he just accept the prince’s protection?

“Perhaps we could come to a compromise,” the prince tried. 

“I’ve made my stance clear, Your Highness.”

“This is absurd. If I let you take him, what do you mean to do with him? Will he get a fair trial? Will he be executed?”

Zaia chuckled. “I don’t know yet. That decision will be left to our king. I am only the messenger.”

Freyjadour looked at Rahal — for guidance? permission? — who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“You don’t have a choice, prince. You have to let me go,” Rahal said. His voice was wooden, almost robotic. A shield. “I disobeyed your orders. I accept whatever punishment Nagarea sees fit.”

“Rahal—“

“If I am one of your most trusted men, as you say, then please, trust me now,” Rahal said.

When Roog was a kid, his grandmother had told him stories of the things Nagarea did to the dragon horse people. She’d been born at the height of the menace, when the Nagarists were razing border villages and slaughtering anyone who dared put up a fight. Her family had managed to avoid the carnage by pushing north each summer. But one day, their luck ran out.

The Nagarist army came to her village, she’d said, when she was twelve, when her family lived on the west bank of the Feitas, just south of Sauronix. They attacked in the night. It was her mother’s silencing hand on her mouth, more than the screams of her neighbours, that woke her. Outside, through the open flap of their tent, she saw straw huts swallowed by flames, bodies strewn on the ground. And inside, her family huddled around her, their wide, terrified eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Her father and brother snatched up their knives, while her mother herded her and her younger sister from the house. They scrambled down the embankment to the river, only steps from their home, and hid in the bushes. She saw everything. She saw the soldiers (savages, she’d called them) behead the blacksmith and rape his screaming wife, saw them loot his workshop and set it ablaze. They cut his dragon horse’s throat. Anything that would burn, they put to the torch.

And then they dragged her father from her family’s tent. They forced him to his knees, hands clasped behind his head. One of the Nagarists — a man built like a mountain, she’d said — swaggered toward him with a club. He said something she couldn’t quite make out, and he laughed cruelly, and with one powerful swing of his weapon, he dashed her father’s brains out onto the grass.

Her brother, she never saw again. They probably took him prisoner, she’d said; the Nagarists sometimes did that with young men, to work them to an early death in the mines or sell them as slaves to the highest bidder. 

Now Rahal was bound for just such a fate, and there was nothing Roog could do to stop it.

“Very well,” the prince said slowly, turning back to Zaia, “then we should discuss terms—“

“There will be no terms,” Zaia said. “Rahal comes with us. If you try to stop us, if anyone follows us, if for some reason we don’t return to Nagarea within the week, my king will know and he will retaliate.”

The prince hesitated. “And what of our trade agreement?”

“The agreement will stand as long as we get Rahal, no questions asked.”

“Then go.” The prince waved his hand in disgust.

“Sir Rahal.” All eyes turned to Lymsleia as her small voice rang out in the hall. She stood at the dais, her hands folded into her sleeves in a manner eerily reminiscent of her mother. At that moment, she looked like a queen, calm, poised, benevolent. “I’m sorry. I’ll pray to the Feitas for your protection.”

Rahal smiled. And then Izil and Nenet grabbed him under the arms, lifting him to his feet. Roog grunted and started forward, but Miakis’s grip on his arm stopped him. When he tried to shake her off, she snaked her arms through his and held him still. 

“Stop it,” she hissed. “You’re just gonna make things worse. We can help Rahal later.”

He watched helplessly as they marched Rahal past him, through the crowd and out the doors. In their wake, the hall exploded with voices. The prince held up his hand to quiet them.

“My apologies for the scene you just witnessed,” he said. He sounded tired, drained. “Please, go back to your rooms. If you have a meeting scheduled with me this evening, we’ll push it back to tomorrow.”

The prince retreated to the throne room with the queen and Lyon, but the crowd remained. Roog stood rooted to the spot, his mind replaying everything he had just seen. Rahal’s bloody face seemed burned on his eyeballs.

“We should talk to the prince,” Miakis said. She still held him, her hands warm on his forearms. “He’ll know what to do. We’ll get Rahal back. We will.”

But the prince wouldn’t have a clue. He’d rarely known what to do, during the war. Lucretia had been the one to plan out every move they’d made; the prince was but a chess piece in her hands. And maybe he’d learned something from her, along the way, but he was still just a kid, untested in these thorny matters of diplomacy. Thorny matters best left to the likes of Lucretia and Rahal.

“Roog?” Miakis said.

“Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it,” he said.

The prince was waiting for them, his mouth set in a grim line. He shook his head when they entered.

“I thought you told him to leave it be, Roog,” he said. He paced, arms crossed, one finger tapping in consternation against his sleeve. “What was he thinking? Does he realize what he’s done?”

“Seeing as he’s neck-deep in shit, I’d say yeah,” Roog snapped. “I can’t believe you just let them carry him off like that. You’re supposed to—“

“Don’t tell me what I’m supposed to do, Roog.” Freyjadour paused, his eyes narrowing. “Falena barely survived our conflict with the Godwins. She’s still limping along, rebuilding, learning to trust again. I can’t afford another war, not now. Not even for Rahal’s sake.”

“You’re the goddamned prince of Falena. You could have done _something_.”

“Like what?” the prince demanded. “If I’d ordered them to let Rahal go, if I’d had Zaia detained, it would have meant war. There was no solution, Roog, at least not one you could stomach. Rahal knew that. He did what any good soldier would have done. He gave himself up for the greater good.”

“But I—“

Freyjadour held up his hand. “Enough. I know the two of you are close, but he made his choice.”

“So you’re not gonna help him?” His eyes shifted past the prince to Lymsleia. She sat rigid on the throne, eyes downcast like a sheep. Lyon stood next to her with a hand on her shoulder. “Your Majesty?”

She looked at him wide-eyed, as if she’d just realized he was there. “I don’t know. I think… my brother is right.”

Arguing was useless. They weren’t going to help him. And the longer they stood here talking about it, the worse it would be for Rahal. 

“I quit,” he said. Beside him, Miakis gasped. “Give the command to someone else. I’ll go after him myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Freyjadour said. “I can’t have you endangering Falena’s peace.”

“And I can’t let him die,” Roog said. “Look, I won’t bust in there takin’ names. I’ll be stealthy. In and out, like the wind, or whatever.”

“I said no.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Roog, please,” Miakis said.

Freyjadour’s face darkened. “I think you’ll find I can. I’ll put you under house arrest — until his death is confirmed, if I must. Whatever it takes to end this foolishness.”

Roog stared at the prince. “What happened to you? Last year, you would have fought to the death to save him. I thought every life mattered.”

“Last year, we were fighting a last-ditch war,” the prince said. “Things are different now, Roog, more complicated. This country is still unstable. We need allies, and I can’t let our enemies think Lym is weak.” He looked at Roog with tired, sorrowful eyes. “I don’t enjoy this. You have to know that. I have nothing but respect for Sir Rahal.”

“But you do look weak, prince,” Roog shot back. “Right now, all I see is a man who won’t stand up for what he believes in.”

The prince closed his eyes. “Just tell me what you’re going to do, Roog,” he said wearily.

There was only one answer he could give. “I’ll stay here. But only because I don’t want Falenan blood on my hands.”

*

He had no intention of staying, though. Back in his room, he dusted off his travel pack and started stuffing it with clothes. He wouldn’t need to take much. His time as commander was over; he’d leave his papers, his maps, and his Cavalry armour behind for whoever took his place. The only thing that mattered now was saving Rahal from those Nagarist demons.

The door opened as he was pulling tight the drawstring on his pack, and Miakis slipped inside. She closed it behind her and leaned against it, taking in the riding cloak slung around his shoulders.

“So you’re really going,” she said.

“Yeah. Don’t really have a choice,” he said.

She nodded. “I know. But I have to tell you the prince posted two guards outside your room. I don’t think they’ll let you walk out of here without a fight.”

“Fuck. Of course he did.”

Miakis went to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The surface of the lake rippled in the silver light of the full moon. Beyond it, the shadow of the Ashtwal Mountains loomed like a giant against the night sky.

“It’s a long way to the mainland,” she said. She pushed the window open and leaned out. “And a long way down. Good thing you’re a strong swimmer.”

He leaned out next to her. It was a fifty-foot drop to the water, a dizzying height for the inexperienced. But he’d jumped greater distances before. 

“You should take this off.” She unclasped his cloak, folded it, and stuffed it into his pack. “It’ll all get soaked anyway, but at least it won’t drown you.” She handed the pack back to him. “Do you have a plan?”

He shrugged. “Swim for shore, then find a boat that’ll take me to Nagarea. If I can catch up to them before they reach the border, all the better.”

“Better get going, then,” she said softly, and she stroked his cheek. “Don’t want to give them too much of a head start.”

He stepped out onto the ledge and steadied himself with one hand on the open window frame. The drop seemed higher now. He stared down at the dark, frothing water below and felt the first flutterings of fear.

“Hey, Miakis,” he said, turning carefully to face her. He caught a glimpse of the bed, where just an hour before he’d been kissing her, and the weight of longing pressed down on him. “You’ll take care of Lance, won’t you? You’re the only person he likes around here besides me.”

“I will,” she promised. 

“Maybe we can pick up where we left off, once I’m back.”

Her smile was thin and sad, as if she knew something he didn’t. She grasped the front of his shirt and pulled him into an awkward hug, each of them on either side of the windowsill, in different worlds. The heat of her arms was a reprieve from the wind that howled at his back, and he clung to her, memorizing how the muscles in her back moved under his hands.

“You don’t want to be here, Roog. You never did,” she murmured. “You want to be wherever he is.”

Her lips grazed his cheek as she pulled away, and then she pushed him hard. 

He fell backwards into the night.

*

The room they locked him in was the darkest place he’d ever been. It was a chasm in front of his open eyes, the kind of darkness that could drive a man insane if he was left in it long enough. Rahal put out his shackled hands and shuffled forward until they touched the wall. The wood was dry and grainy, and it splintered under his fingertips. 

He felt his way around the circumference of the room, counting his steps as he hugged the wall. The room was a box, almost a coffin — six steps between the door and the back of the cell, and five across. Enough space to stand and sit, but hardly enough to lie down.

Wincing, he slid to the floor and cradled his broken hand between his thighs. The air smelled dank and sour, like an animal corpse gone long undiscovered, and a dull, rhythmic thumping came from the other side of the wall — cargo hung in netting, perhaps. Around him, the boat creaked and rocked as it cut through the waters of the Feitas, its course set south for Nagarea.

He closed his eyes and let himself be soothed by the rush of waves against the hull of the ship. His whole body hurt. They’d given him nothing to tend to his wounds, not even a cloth to wipe the crusted blood from his face. The warm throbbing in his injured hand worried him. He needed to get it set, and soon, or he’d never hold a sword again.

 _That’s the least of your problems. You may never see Falena again. You may never see Roog again_.

Rahal swallowed hard and turned his face against the wall. Roog had witnessed everything. He’d stood there, half-dressed, with a flushed and disheveled Miakis by his side, watching his humiliation. The two of them had probably been together, downstairs in Roog’s room, just before his arrest. They were probably back there now — now that he was gone, out of the picture forever.

_That’s not fair. Roog spoke out in your defense._

It was his only solace.

In three days, they’d reach the border. And the hell he’d endured today was nothing compared to what awaited him in Nagarea.


	5. Five

The sound of boots on deck woke him. Roog blinked against the light of day and lifted his head from the straw-stuffed rag he’d used as a pillow. A dull ache throbbed between his eyes, a souvenir from the sleep that had eluded him the night before. He’d lain awake for hours, tossing and turning, staring up at the mouldy wooden beams that supported the ceiling of his cabin. But at some point, his body’s needs must have won out against his restless brain. He’d slept, if only for an hour or two.

Three days had passed since his leap into the lake at Sol-Falena. He’d swum the kilometre to shore, muscles aching, and re-entered the city a safe distance from the palace. At the pier, he’d paid a night fisherman eight thousand potch — almost all his savings — to shuttle him to Lelcar, but it had taken some haggling. By the time they’d pushed off from the docks, the Nagarists were long gone. How much of a head start had they gotten? An hour? Maybe two? He’d hoped to catch up with them before the border, but it seemed like less and less of a possibility with every passing day.

He sat up and rubbed gritty sleep from his eyes, kicking away the scratchy wool blanket that caught around his feet. His clammy clothes clung unpleasantly to his skin, but there was nothing dry to change into. The contents of his pack were still wet. There was nowhere to hang them on board. He lifted his arm, sniffed, and recoiled. He stank like musty cotton and three days’ worth of pit sweat.

“We’re here, kid,” the captain said, poking his surly face into the cabin. “Get your stuff n’ scram. We got a tight schedule to keep.”

“Yeah.” Roog slung his pack over his shoulder and exited the cabin. He shivered as the fresh breeze off the river rushed over his wet clothes. “Thanks again. I owe you.”

“Forget it. You paid me for my services, I delivered. We’re even.”

They lowered the gangplank for him and he alighted from the boat. The sun had only just risen, and the port was a tumult of bellowing fishmongers, haggling merchants, and traders unloading crates and cargo from the holds of their ships. The heavy smell of raw fish hung in the air. Seagulls circled overhead, their shrill cries cutting through the din. Roog scanned the docks for brown robes and blue tattoos on bald heads, but the people he saw were all of Falenan stock, garbed in colourful clothes. His own head was probably the baldest of the bunch.

_Now what?_

Rahal might as well have been on the moon, for all that Nagarea was a mystery. He didn’t know Zaia’s rank or title, or where his home base was located. But maybe someone in Lelcar did.

On the Eastern Islet, the inn was just a few steps from the port. The bar on the main floor was empty but for a grizzled traveller picking at breakfast with chopsticks and an alewife wiping smudges from a glass with her apron. She glanced up when Roog entered. Her back straightened and she pushed out her chest, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. A reaction — an _invitation_ — he was used to by now, and one he might have met with enthusiasm on any other day. 

“What can I do for you?” she said. “We’ve got a few vacancies, if that’s what you’re after.”

Roog shook his head. “I’m journeying south, into Nagarea, and I need to know how to get there.

“Nagarea?” she echoed. She placed the glass in the cupboard behind her and took up another from the sink, polishing it methodically, absently. “People don’t travel there. Not people with a lick of sense, anyway. Nagarists don’t take too kindly to outsiders.”

“I still need to get there.”

“Why? You got a death wish?”

“I’m looking for someone,” he said. 

“A girl?” Eyes twinkling, she placed a hand on his arm. “We’ve got plenty of those here in Falena, honey. You’re looking at one.”

“A friend.” This was getting him nowhere. “Listen, have any Nagarists come through here in the past few days? Bald heads, brown robes? Weird blue tattoos? Does that sound familiar?"

She looked up at the ceiling with pursed lips. “I don’t remember any tattoos or bald guys, but there was a lady in a brown robe in here yesterday. She had her hood up, so I couldn’t see her face all that well. She spoke Falenan with an accent.”

_Nenet. It must have been her._

“What did she want?” he prodded.

“She asked me to fill a couple of water skins and ordered the battered fish to go.”

“That’s all?”

“Yep. I didn’t ask for her life story. I just took her potch and she left.”

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than nothing. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there an easy way to get to Nagarea from here on foot?”

“The mountain pass is dangerous. No one goes that way, especially not alone, unless they’re crazy. It’s full of wyverns and gods know what else.” She shook her head and started wiping down the counter, blowing her wispy brown hair out of her eyes. “You’d do better to go by boat. You could probably hire someone to take you there.”

But entering Nagarea by water was out of the question. There would be border guards, and they’d ask questions, search his pack, might even take his weapons. He’d be as good as helpless without his swords, even if they missed the knife he kept tucked in his boot.

No, the mountain pass was his only option. They’d have guards posted at the checkpoint, but at least by land he could find a way to skirt them. 

“Where’s the entrance to the pass?” he asked.

She looked at him with round eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“You can’t go alone. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I have to go.”

She sighed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s a half-day’s walk south of here. There’s no trail, but if you take the western exit and follow the tree line south, you’ll come to it.”

“Thank you.” 

He drew back, adjusting his pack on his shoulder, and made to leave. But her hand on his arm stopped him. He glanced at her and saw her eyes sweep over him in a way that had nothing to do with desire.

“You’ll catch your death of cold if you go out there wearing that,” she said. “At least let me get you a fresh change of clothes.”

*

He walked for hours before he reached the entrance to the pass. The sun had begun to set, bringing out a chill in the air, and he was thankful for the heavy wool cloak the alewife had given him. Underneath, he wore a pair of pants that pinched his crotch and a sleeveless linen shirt that fit snugly around the chest. They’d once belonged to a much smaller man — her brother, the alewife had insisted, though Roog guessed, by the way she avoided his eyes, that they’d belonged to a conquest instead. 

Not that he cared where the clothes came from. It only mattered that they kept him warm.

He paused at the foot of the path and considered making camp. His sore feet begged him to stop for the night, but if he did, he’d have to sleep with one eye open, watchful for predators, thieves, and Nagarist scouts. There was nowhere to take shelter, either; the mountain rose around him on all sides, boxing him in, its peaks disappearing into the inky blackness of the sky. There were no trees, no bushes, no caves to hole up in. He’d have to camp in the open, and Rahal was no longer there to watch his back.

 _Rahal. Where are you?_ he wondered. Had they reached Nagarea? Had Zaia put him in some hellish oubliette? Was he even still alive, or had they tortured him to death by now?

Whatever his fate, Roog couldn’t just leave him to it. He drank from the skin the alewife had given him and kept moving.

*

“Zaia. You’ve returned sooner than I expected.”

“Yes. There were… complications, Your Highness. A spy.”

Rahal knelt in front of the Nagarist king. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the colourful mosaic that tiled the floor. A ray of sunlight spilled across it, shining in through a window in the dome above. It was strange to think that the world continued to turn, that life outside carried on, even though his was almost at its end. 

Izil stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder, holding him in place, but Rahal doubted he could move even if he wanted to. He was tired. He’d slept fitfully on the journey to Nagarea. They’d left him mostly to himself on the boat, opening his door only to toss him a stale roll or a block of cheese, but he’d found it impossible to sleep comfortably in such a small space. 

And then there was the matter of his broken hand. The swelling had yet to abate, although the stabbing pain had been replaced by a prickling numbness. He tried not to look at his mutilated fingers. They were beyond fixing now.

“A spy?” The king’s voice rose in interest. “Queen Lymsleia didn’t…?”

“Her brother wouldn’t admit involvement, Your Highness,” Zaia said. “But I think he must have known what was going on.”

“Oh?”

“The spies you dispatched to Sauronix reported that Rahal received a summons from the Sun Palace around the same time the queen sent you her letter of invitation,” Zaia said. “Rahal never returned to Sauronix, which means he must have had a reason to stay in Sol-Falena. He disguised himself as a woman to pry information from me.”

“Ah. I wondered why you brought him in wearing a dress. Go on.”

“A host of people who know Rahal—including the prince and the queen herself—saw him dressed as a woman, yet acted like nothing was amiss. It’s suspicious, Your Highness, very suspicious. We couldn’t prove anything at the time—“

“I’m beginning to understand. You brought him here to force a confession.”

“Yes, Your Highness, if you’ll let me.”

The king’s voice took on a tone of warning. “I’m not looking for a war, Zaia.”

“Of course, my lord, of course, but—“

“If Lymsleia denied involvement and let you arrest one of her commanding officers, I’m inclined to think she isn’t, either.”

Zaia growled. “And if she was involved?”

“Gathering intelligence, regardless of the means, is hardly an act of war. Every nation has spies, Zaia. Some are just more competent than others.”

Rahal’s cheeks burned in shame. He closed his eyes and let his chin drop onto his chest.

“Then what do you want me to do with him?” Zaia asked. “Give him back to Falena? He embarrassed us in front of the entire Falenan court. And he could have information, Your Highness, valuable information—“

The king laughed mirthlessly. “Of course I don’t want you to give him back, you fool. I’m not looking for war, but I’m not about to trot him back to Falena with my tail between my legs, either. String him up, prod him for information, kill him, if you must. Just make this problem go away.”

“So you plan to do nothing against Falena?”

“For the last time, no. We’ve secured peace with Queen Lymsleia. I’d like it to last at least a few years.”

Zaia was silent for a moment. The he said, “Where shall I take him?”

“I don’t want him here. Take him back to your lands.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Zaia snapped his fingers and Izil jerked him to his feet again. They marched him from the hall, through winding corridors, down a flight of stairs, and out into a back courtyard. All the way, people stared and whispered behind their hands—either they’d never seen a man in a dress before, or they were thrilled by the sight of a battered Falenan.

In the courtyard, Nenet waited for them with three mounts, saddled and ready to go. Zaia hoisted himself onto one of them, then motioned to Izil.

“Where are your lands?” Rahal asked, as Izil tightened the shackles around his wrists.

“A day’s ride,” Zaia said. “A day and a half, maybe, depending how fast you can walk.”

“Walk?” Rahal echoed.

Zaia smirked. “Indeed. You’ll travel on foot.”

_You must be joking._

Nenet tossed Izil a rope, and he fastened one end of it to Rahal’s shackles, the other end to the pommel on Zaia’s saddle. Numbly, he watched them do it. They’d be dragging him behind them long before they reached their destination. He was weary down to his core.

Zaia clucked and tapped his horse’s flank, and they were off. Rahal receded into himself, letting his eyes glaze over, letting his thoughts drift far away from Nagarea. He barely felt the pebbles that dug into his feet through the thin soles of his shoes, nor the midday sun that beat down on his bare chest. He put one foot in front of the other, again, again, watching the dusty road pass beneath him, listening to the steady clip-clop of hooves on packed ground. The steady hum of cicadas hypnotized him. The hours slipped by. 

When they stopped for the night, his heels and toes were bleeding. He drank a bit of water from the cup Nenet had brought him, then used the rest to wash his feet. He wrapped them with strips of cloth torn from his dress. 

Sleep came to him for a few hours, only to be torn away just before dawn by a sharp kick in the ribs. He curled in on himself and gulped for air. 

“Get up,” Nenet growled.

He walked again, but couldn’t make himself float as he had the day before. Every step was more painful than the last. He fell once, but struggled to his feet again when he realized Zaia wouldn’t stop for him. His nose and chest had begun to peel in the unrelenting heat of the sun. His tongue felt enormous in his too-dry mouth. He needed water. 

When he saw the fortress on the horizon, shimmering in the heat like a mirage, all he felt was relief.

*

Zaia’s entire household greeted them when they trotted into the courtyard, a crush of men eager to take his horse, take his sword, take his saddle bags to his quarters. Rahal dropped to his knees as they swirled around him. He wanted to lie down and rest his cheek against the cool flagstone, to close his eyes and sleep. Somewhere along the way, the pain had become a halo around his whole body, a humming, living, pulsing _thing_.

They were so busy that maybe they wouldn’t notice him kneeling there. Maybe they’d forget he existed. But that foolish hope died as Nenet began to untie him from the horse. 

“Get up,” she barked. She coiled the rope’s slack around her hand and tugged upwards, hard, jerking him to his feet. 

“Water,” he rasped.

She slapped his face. “Shut up.”

“Take him to the dungeon,” Zaia said as he came up behind Nenet. His disdainful eyes slithered up the length of Rahal’s dress. “Wait for me in his cell. I’ll be down shortly to deal with him.”

“You heard him,” Nenet said. She shoved Rahal forward and placed the butt of her spear against his back. “Move.”

For a moment, he entertained the fantasy of making a run for it, of slipping into the crowd and escaping through the open front gates. But then he’d have to fend for himself when he didn't know the lay of the land and had just a rusty recollection of the Nagarist tongue. He doubted the villagers in Zaia’s lands would offer shelter to a shackled fugitive. They’d be more likely to turn him back over to Zaia.

Still, he’d be free. He could stick to the forests—but were there forests? On their journey here, he’d been too preoccupied with putting one foot in front of the other to notice his surroundings.

“What are you waiting for?” Nenet hissed. 

She jabbed him with the end of her spear, propelling him over the threshold. The dark and the dampness of the castle enfolded him. His nostrils burned with the bitter smell of mildew. The moment for escape was lost. 

The castle grew progressively more shadowed and derelict as she marched him through innumerable corridors, down into the bowels of Zaia’s stronghold. When they reached the dungeons, she took a torch from a sconce on the wall to light the way. The circular staircase was so narrow that Rahal’s shoulders didn’t fit. He turned on his side and shuffled down that way, his back scraping against unhewn stone.

Nenet stopped him at the third cell on the left and opened the heavy iron door with a key from the ring on her belt.

“Get in,” she said. 

He hesitated. Someone had lived—maybe died—here recently. The floor of the cell was covered in filthy rushes and he gagged as the stink of stale urine wafted over him. There was no window; the only light he’d receive was through a small, square aperture in the door.

“I said get in.” 

Nenet pushed him again and he stumbled into the room. The smell inside was worse, so acrid that he breathed through his mouth to spare his nose. A bucket overflowing with offal sat in the corner next to a blood-stained sheet stuffed with hay. The stone walls oozed, shining with moisture and mildew. As he stared at his new lodgings, a sort of numb horror crept over him. He couldn’t stay here. Not for a single night.

He turned back to Nenet. She leaned against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed over the other, and watched him with wary, glittering eyes. By the way she’d manhandled him, he knew she was strong. But she was still smaller than him. He could probably overpower her. It would be simple enough—kick her feet out from under her and punch her hard enough in the jaw to knock her out. Then he could take her weapon and fight his way up the stairs to freedom.

He stepped forward, and the sharp tip of her spear jabbed into the soft meat under his chin, hard enough to hurt without drawing blood. He went very still, scarcely daring to breathe or swallow. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” she warned.

“My mistake,” he breathed. He raised his hands and backed up slowly, out of range of her spear.  “Can’t fault a man for trying.”

“You are very brave. But stupid.”

He tucked his hands under his armpits and looked at her. Despite the smirk that curved her lips, and the harshness of her smooth, bald head, there was something soft about her face. “How did you come to be in Zaia’s service?” he asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.”

Her eyebrows rose and she shook her head. “He is my cousin. The son of my mother’s brother. I spent many summers here and wanted to stay. So I chose to serve Zaia.”

“And you enjoy it?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “Imprisoning and torturing your fellow man?”

“I do not beat you for my own pleasure. I beat you because it is my duty.”

“Your duty?” he echoed.

“Yes. I am tasked with protecting Nagarea,” she said. “You have information. We want it.”

“Information?”

“Yes. About the queen’s involvement in your spying.”

Rahal flushed in anger. “I already told you she had nothing to do with it. I have no more information to give.”

“That is what all men say until pain forces the truth.”

He started to respond, but the sound of boots in the stairwell silenced him. Zaia and three men appeared. Two of them held clubs; the third, a dagger tucked into his belt. They were larger than Zaia, tall and barrel-chested, more the size of Boz or Wilhelm. Nenet moved aside to let them into the cell, and they crowded around him, filling the tiny space. Rahal watched them warily.

“Is he mouthing off again, Nenet?” Zaia asked.

“Only a little, my lord.”

“We’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?” Zaia glanced at the man next to him and tilted his head toward Rahal. “Strip him.”

Desperate terror hurtled into Rahal’s belly as the man seized his arms. Instinctively, he surged forward and drove his knee into the man’s groin, then head-butted him as he doubled over with a grunt. His hands fell away, but another of Zaia’s lackeys was already grabbing him from behind. Rahal twisted, throwing his elbow back into what he hoped was a face, and was rewarded with a sickening crunch and a howl of pain. 

“You idiots!” Zaia snarled. He pointed at Nenet. “Do something!”

Red-faced, she stepped into the mix. Rahal lunged at her, but someone caught the back of his dress and yanked on it, tried to tug him away. With a frustrated yell, Rahal threw his arms around Nenet’s neck, hooking her with the chain that linked his shackles, and pulled her sinewy body against him. She went stiff. Her spear was useless at such close range—she knew it as well as he did. She dropped it and grasped the torn edges of his bodice, tried to push it off his shoulders.

_Oh, no, you don’t._

He pulled her forward with the chain and bit her ear. She screamed, high and shrill, as his teeth sank into the hard ridges of cartilage. Her fists flailed uselessly against him. The warm, coppery taste of her blood flowed over his tongue, but he refused to let go. He bit harder, shaking his head like a wild animal, as if to tear the ear clean off. Under the force of his jaws, he felt the cartilage start to give.

And then a fist hit him in the lower back, just to the left of his spine. He cried out and snapped backward. A mangled piece of Nenet’s ear fell out of his mouth, bouncing down his chest between them and landing on the floor in a puddle of saliva and blood. He couldn’t breathe. He let himself be gathered roughly into the arms of the man who’d struck him.

Trembling, Nenet ducked out from under the chain and gingerly placed a hand over her ear. “Asshole,” she said.

Zaia’s goon threw him to the floor on his belly and held him down with a foot in the small of his back. Nose in the rushes, he dry-heaved, tears stinging his eyes. His mouth still held the taste of Nenet’s blood. His stomach roiled with it.

Zaia squatted next to him and lifted the curtain of hair from in front of his face with the point of his dagger. “We wouldn’t have to do this to you if you’d just behave,” he said.

Rahal closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath.

“Why won’t you tell us what we want to know?”

“Nothing… to tell.”

“Pathetic,” Zaia said. He rose again. The rushes crunched under his feet as he stepped away. “Take his clothes off and burn them. Let him sit here in the cold and the darkness for awhile. Then we’ll see if he’s willing to talk. Nenet—get yourself to a healer to see about that ear when you’re done here.”

“Yes, cousin. Thank you.”

Zaia retreated, and then the others started tearing at his clothes. The skirt came off first, followed by the silk braes he’d worn underneath. They cut the ruined bodice open at the back and wrested it off of him. They even took his shoes and lace stockings. All the while, he lay there, paralyzed, the cold air coaxing goosebumps out of his naked skin. 

The fabric of his dress was thin, and hadn’t offered much protection from the elements. But it had been armour for his pride. Now it was gone, and he felt sick, scared, and exposed.

When they were done, they stood over him in a semi-circle. One of them prodded him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.

“This the best the Dragon Cavalry’s got?” he grunted. “Sad, if you ask me.”

“Think we should rough him up a bit?” said another.

“Zaia said to leave him,” Nenet said sharply. 

“Aw, c’mon, Nenet, you’re too much of an ass-kisser.”

“Yeah. Let us have a little fun.”

“Nah, I think she’s right,” said the third. “The boss’s got a plan for this one.”

“Just go,” Nenet said.

The three of them shuffled out, leaving her alone with Rahal. She crouched next to him and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, almost tenderly. His eyes met hers. Blood glistened on her neck and cheek, but if her mutilated ear bothered her, she didn’t show it.

“You should tell my cousin what he wants to know,” she murmured. “He hates the Dragon Cavalry. He’ll give you no mercy.”

He swallowed hard. “I already told you—“

“The same old excuses. Listen, you can tell him what he wants to know and he’ll kill you quickly, or you can be stubborn and rot down here in this dungeon. It’s your choice.” She rose and kicked him in the side, the stiff toe of her boot catching his hipbone. “That was for my ear.”

She left, shutting and locking the door behind her, leaving him alone in the darkness. For a moment, he lay there, gasping for air, his chest and sides aching. But then the unbearable cold came. He shuffled to his right, slowly, until he felt the slimy wet wall against his bare arm. He curled into a fetal position, cradled himself, tried to hold in what little body heat he had left. He heard something scuttling in the walls next to him. The sound of hundreds of insects—or worse, hungry rats.

Despite himself, he thought of Roog. He knew help would never come—he’d seen resolve in the prince’s eyes before he’d turned away in disgust, before he’d dismissed Zaia from Sol-Falena—but part of him still hoped. That Roog still cared about him, that Roog was as willful and reckless as he’d always been, that Roog would come for him.

 _I just want to see you one last time_ , he thought.

But the memory of Roog’s sun-browned face would have to do. He closed his eyes and clung to it in the dark.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait! I struggled with this chapter. It's tough to write about the boys when they're apart.

“A Falenan on the path to Nagarea.” The voice belonged to a woman with a Nagarist accent so light it was nearly undetectable. “That is something you do not see every day.”

Roog looked up from his small campfire, his hand moving to the sword on the ground next to him. She stood on the path a few yards away, dressed in dusty travel clothes. A brown scarf covered her hair. Her wrinkled face held none of the malice he’d expected, only curiosity, and her head was cocked at him in interest, her brown eyes bright even in the dusky light. Her thumbs were hooked in the straps of a heavy-looking travel pack hanging from her shoulders.

He guessed her to be about fifty, hardly a menace. But danger sometimes came in small packages. “You got a problem with that?” he grunted.

“No. I am only curious. And pleasantly surprised.”

He scowled. “Pleasantly surprised?”

“I have a particular affection for Falena.”

“Affection?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Are you going to parrot me all night, or will you kindly invite a weary traveler to share your fire?”

“Nah. Sorry. Don’t really wanna break bread with a Nagarist right now."

“Oh dear.” She slipped the pack off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground with a thud and a clank. “My curiosity grows. A solitary Falenan on the path to Nagarea was strange enough. But a solitary Falenan with a grudge against Nagarists? This is a story I want to hear.”

“Look, lady, I’m not in the telling mood.”

“Yet you look like a man who has something to say. Please.” She squatted, flipped open her pack, and pulled out a pewter flask. She shook it at him. The sound of liquid sloshing inside it made his mouth water. “I have drink to share.”

“No thanks.”

“But I have been told I am a good listener.”

“Are you deaf? I said no.”

“Then allow me to tell you a bit about myself.” She sat next to him, cross-legged, and pulled the stopper out of the flask. “My name is Isaara,” she began. “I have been travelling through Armes and the south of Falena for the past few months as a spice trader. I just sold the last of my stock, and my horse and wagon. I am returning to my home now to retire. I am not rich. But I can live out the rest of my days in comfort.” She took a sip and offered him the flask. “Your turn.”

He waved off the flask. “I’m looking for someone. A friend.”

“A friend? In Nagarea?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Nothing exciting.”

“How is it that you came to have a friend in Nagarea? The border has only been open for two months.”

“He’s not from Nagarea. He’s from Falena,” he said.

“Then what is he doing in Nagarea?”

Roog rolled his eyes. Runes, did she ever quit? She was worse than a nosy eight-year-old. She probably didn’t mean him any harm, but he doubted it would be wise to give her too much information. 

As he considered his response, he watched her dig a little wooden pipe out of her rucksack and pack the bowl with fragrant herbs. It had been years since he’d last seen a pipe, longer still since he’d smoked one. The last time had been with his father, just a few weeks before he died, and Rahal and his father. It was a late summer day at the end of a hunt. They’d taken down a tusked boar together. His father had brought out his pipe in celebration, and the four of them had shared it. Rahal had never smoked before—he’d been only seventeen at the time—and after the first draw, he went into a fit of hacking coughs, bending almost double as he thrust the pipe into Roog’s hands.

The three of them had laughed at him. But afterwards, Rahal refused to touch a pipe again, refused to be in the same room as someone smoking one. And consciously or not, Roog had given it up, too, even though it cost him memories of his father.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell Isaara _something—_ just enough to satisfy her curiosity.  

“He was taken,” he said.

“Taken?” She took a long draw from the pipe and held it for a moment in her lungs, like someone waiting for bad news, then slowly blew out the smoke. “Taken by whom?”

“Look, it’s a sensitive topic.”

“Is he a political prisoner?” she mused. 

“I guess you could say that.”

“Oh?” She puffed on the pipe thoughtfully. “Where is your friend being held?”

“Will you knock it off with the questions already?”

“I cannot help it. It is in my nature.”

“Then you must be used to disappointment.”

She smiled. “No. I usually get the answers I want.”

“Uh huh. Probably because you annoy the shit out of everyone. They tell you things just so you’ll shut up.”

“Perhaps.” The smile fell off her face and she leaned toward him, bracing her arms on her knees. “But I must tell you, very honestly, that my only loyalty to Nagarea is that I was born there. Yes, it is true that I grew up believing the things our clerics preached. But I spent much of my adult life travelling in Armes and it opened my eyes to the world. It taught me that my country has been very short-sighted in the past. Its conflict with Falena has been more damaging than I can say.”

“Doesn’t matter. My lips are sealed.”

“Perhaps I can help you find your friend, if you would only tell me the circumstances.”

“Nope. You could be the sister of the person who took him, for all I know.”

“I am an only child. I have no family.”

“Look, it’s too dangerous to say, so knock it off, will ya?”

She studied him, her lips working the stem of the pipe. “Let us start at the beginning, then. You are in the Dragon Cavalry, are you not?”

“How did you know?”

“It was a lucky guess. I did not know, but thank you for confirming it.”

Roog sighed. “Give me the flask.” She handed it to him, and he motioned to the pipe. “And that.”

It was going to be a long night.

*

He’d planned to sneak away early the next morning while Isaara still slept, but when he woke, disoriented and mildly hungover, he found she was already up. She was re-packing her bag and roasting a tiny rodent over the remains of their campfire. As he lifted his head to blink at her, she beamed and tossed him an orange. He still didn’t trust her, but at least she hadn’t killed him in his sleep.

They walked together as the sun traced a lazy arc through cloudless skies. He hardly spoke, except to punctuate her chatter with a grunt or monosyllabic answer, and kept his eyes glued to the path in front of him. It seemed to go on forever. But the border couldn’t be far off now.

“I have been thinking,” she said, as they paused for a break in the shadow of a eucalyptus tree, “and I have decided that you must let me help you.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“Yes, yes, but the way you spoke of your friend last night touched me,” she said. “You must get across the border without incident. You will not be able to do it alone.”

What had he said last night? Frantic, he racked his brain, but came up empty. Her rum had been stronger than he’d expected. 

“I can’t risk you turning me over to them,” he said.

“I would not do such a thing.”

“How can I trust you?”

“That is the point of trust, is it not? To put blind faith in someone?”

“Fine. Let’s say I agree. What’s your plan?”

She grinned. “It is simple. I will say you are my son.”

“I don’t have papers. I don’t speak the language. They’ll know you’re lying.”

“Very well, then. I will say you are a slave I picked up at Agate Prison.”

Roog shook his head. “Slavery is illegal in Falena.”

She held up a finger. “Ah, but not in Nagarea. You would be a nobody. Less than nothing. They will not ask questions and you will not need papers.”

“Agate wouldn’t just sell a prisoner into slavery,” Roog countered.

“Perhaps not officially. But I am certain we can convince the men at the border that I bought you from a corrupt prison guard.”

“Oh, please. This hypothetical guard of yours’d get in shit for letting a prisoner go missing under his watch.”

“The border guards will not be thinking of these things.” She mopped her glistening forehead with the tail of her head scarf and started walking again. “Many Nagarists know very little about Falena. For them, it would be no stretch to assume that Falenan guards are as crooked as those in Nagarea.”

Roog started to nod. “Uh huh. Okay. Sure. And they’re just gonna believe that a little old lady like you can keep a guy like me in line?”

“I have some rope and fishing line in my pack. I will bind your wrists and ankles.”

“Great.”

“I am also a trained martial artist.”

“Do they know that?”

“No. But if they question it, I am happy to demonstrate.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

They walked for a time in silence. Roog pulled his cape up over his head when he felt his scalp start to burn. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and stung his eyes. They soaked the front of his too-small shirt, got trapped in the fabric bunched under his arms, made his skin chafe. He scratched at his armpits incessantly, struggling to think. Part of him still resisted Isaara’s plan, but the other part—the uncomfortable, sticky, exhausted part—was starting to come around. As plans went, it wasn’t so bad. It was almost good. It was his fastest ticket out of this gods-forsaken mountain pass, anyway.

“I still haven’t told you where my friend is being held,” he said.

Isaara shrugged. “It does not matter. I respect your reasons for not telling me.”

“Uh huh? You’re awfully trusting.”

“You have shown me that you are good. That is all I need to know.”

“Well, I sure as hell don’t trust you.”

“Your friend must mean a great deal to you, if you have come all the way here to help him. Perhaps this is the greatest test of your friendship. Do you care for him enough to put your life in the hands of a stranger?”

“I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You agree to my plan, then?”

“Yeah. But now I’m curious. What’s in it for you?” he asked.

“A big, young, handsome man by my side.” She grinned and winked. “I have had worse travel companions.”

*

She stopped him a half mile from the border. Together, they smeared his face with dirt and hacked at the tails of his shirt until they hung in tatters. Roog handed over his swords, but Isaara let him keep the dagger in his boot, and she gave him her pack to carry. Then she bound his wrists tight with the fishing line and his ankles with the rope, loose enough that he could still walk without tripping. Then he rubbed his wrists against the fishing line until his skin went raw and red, until he bled.

“Just keep silent,” she said. “If they ask your name, tell them. But let me do most of the talking.”

There were four guards at the border. As they approached, Roog dropped his chin to his chest, shuffled his feet, leaned to his left in what he hoped was a convincing limp. His heart had begun to pound, hammering against his ribcage like an indignant prisoner. He breathed deeply through his nose and surrendered his fate to Isaara.

A guard holding a clipboard gestured at Isaara and said something in the Nagarist tongue. 

“Isaara,” she replied, and handed him her papers. 

He perused the sheets for a moment, then asked her another question. She responded, pointing to the pack on Roog’s back. 

One of the other guards had begun to circle Roog, looking him up and down. His probing gaze made Roog’s skin itch, but he forced himself to keep his head down, refused to make eye contact. He had to stay meek. He had to stay silent. He had to make himself look small and defeated.

The first guard spoke again.

This time, Isaara responded in Falenan. “He is a slave I picked up during my travels.”

“Name, slave?”

Roog licked his lips, glancing at Isaara for guidance. She nodded. “G-Gavaya,” he lied.

“He’s a big man, isn’t he?” said the second guard in a heavy accent. He slipped the hilt of his knife under Roog’s chin and forced his head up. “How did a grandmother like you get him here without a fight?”

“I assure you, there was a fight,” Isaara said. “There were many. He has spirit, I will give him that.” She said something else in Nagarist, and the three of them laughed. Roog had no idea what they were saying. Unlike Rahal, he’d skipped out on most of their language training as a youth. He could manage a few phrases in Armes, and a handful of words in Nagarist—but they were useless words, the only words an apathetic teenage boy could retain, words like “shit-heap” and “goat-lover.”

The first guard handed Isaara’s papers back, then motioned to Roog and said something else, his brows knitting in concern. Isaara shook her head and smiled. She flexed her deceptively muscular bicep. The guard grinned. 

And then he was motioning them through.

Isaara shoved Roog once for the sake of authenticity, and they walked in silence for the next mile. He realized his hands were shaking. He clasped them together, his knuckles going white, and forced himself to breathe. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. And then his lips tugged into a smile.

He’d made it. He was in Nagarea. He was one step closer to finding Rahal.

“You are pleased,” Isaara said. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and knelt to loosen the knots around his ankles. 

“Yeah,” he said. “What were they saying?”

“I told them I defeated you soundly in hand-to-hand combat. So soundly that you cried.” She rose, chuckling, and cut the fishing wire with her knife. “They seemed to find that amusing.”

Roog rubbed his sore wrists. “That’s not all they said.”

“No.” She handed him her water skin. “Splash some of that on your face to wash off the dirt. They also asked if I needed help getting you down the mountain.”

“What?”

“They were concerned that you are too much of a handful for this frail old ‘grandmother’.”

Roog stared at her incredulously as she flipped her knife closed, as she circled him to strip her pack off his shoulders. “What if they follow us?”

“They will not follow us. Their offer was merely a courtesy. They cannot leave their post.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” She heaved herself into her pack and adjusted the straps. “Now, we must go. There is a town at the foot of the mountain. If we move quickly, we may be able to reach it by nightfall.”

*

Gentle hands on his waist pulled him from delirium and propped him up against the damp, cold wall. His cell was filled with torchlight, and though his vision swam, he was able to make out the grizzled, bearded face of Zaia’s household priest looming over him. Rahal started and cried out, but the man shushed him, stroking his callused hand across Rahal’s forehead.

“No more,” Rahal begged. His throat was so dry that it came out as a croak.

The priest looked at him with wide, baffled eyes, then whispered soothingly, his fingers stroking the hair back from Rahal’s face. And then Rahal noticed the bucket next to him, and the satchel full of ointments, and the pile of clean linens. He’d expected all of Zaia’s household to be brutes, but it seemed that some of them yet clung to their humanity.

The priest took Rahal’s broken hand between his own. The skin was bruised and swollen, humped like something was living inside and ready to burst out. The priest grazed it with his thumbs. A shock of pain radiated through his nerves and Rahal bit his lip to keep from yelling, pulling his hand back as if from an open flame.

The priest bowed his head three times. An apology?

Rahal shook his head and spoke in Nagarist. “Do you have water?” 

The priest’s eyes brightened and he nodded vigorously, unhooking a small wooden cup from his belt. He scooped up some water from the bucket and brought it to Rahal’s lips, cradling the back of Rahal’s head as he gulped from it greedily. It was warm, but it was fresh, and it was the first he’d had to drink in more than sixteen hours.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

The priest set the cup aside and pointed to Rahal’s hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you want from me. Can you speak?”

The priest shook his head. He opened his mouth and pointed inside, and Rahal saw a stump where his tongue should have been.

“I see. Are you asking me if you can fix my hand?”

The priest nodded.

“I don’t think you can. It’s been almost a week since they broke it.”

The priest waved at him impatiently and took Rahal’s hand again in his own. His fingers probed between the bones, to find where they had snapped, and this time, Rahal did cry out. The priest looked at him apologetically. Then slowly, carefully, he began to shift the bones back where they belonged. Shaking, Rahal breathed hard through clenched teeth, grasping his arm with his good hand to keep himself still and steady. Tears pricked his eyes. He almost wished for the numbness to return.

When the priest was done, he set Rahal’s hand on a thin, wide piece of wood, arranging the fingers so they lay flat, and bound them fast together with a long strip of linen. The searing pain had subsided, replaced now with a warm throbbing. It was good, clean work. With any luck, he’d be able to use the hand again one day—if he ever escaped this dungeon.

The priest dabbed crusted blood from Rahal’s face with a damp cloth and patted ointment from a jar onto his open wounds. The bitter, woody smell of it stung his nose. But it was all the priest could do for him; there were other wounds, untreatable wounds, like the tender bruise on his back where Zaia’s lackey had kicked him. He’d pissed blood after that one.

And then he was alone again, with only the torchlight shining through the square window in his cell door to comfort him. The minutes slipped by and he stumbled between sleep and wakefulness, curled in the rotting straw with his knees tucked up against his chest. He dreamt. He dreamt he was back home in Falena, standing outside his office window and looking in. Hundreds of candles cast the room in an orange glow. In the middle of them all, Roog sat leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, like he belonged there. Rahal put his palm against the window. Slowly, Roog turned his head to look at him, his eyes like two black holes in his face, and grinned. His teeth glinted silver in the dim light.

“Got what was coming to you, didn’t you, whore?” he hissed.

Then his face melted, the skin dribbling from his skull like hot wax, and Rahal fell through an endless black ether. A horrific wailing, a swelling of screams and moans like thousands of men dying on a battlefield, surged in his head. He clapped his hands to his ears and tried to block it out. But the sound persisted, even as he straddled the realm between sleep and wakefulness, as he opened his eyes to find himself back in his cell. He realized the sound was coming from somewhere down the hall—from one of his fellow prisoners, being tortured in the depths of the dungeon.

He blinked himself fully awake and saw Zaia standing over him.

“Good to see you’ve joined us,” he said. “Are you ready to talk?”

Rahal shuddered and turned his face to the wall. 

“Now, don’t be like that,” Zaia said. “You can make this all go away if you’d just tell us what we want to know.”

“I told you—“

“No more excuses. Listen to me—I can make you wish you were dead. Do you hear those screams?” Zaia paused and tilted his head as a long, shrill cry echoed down the corridor. “That’s the sound of a man having his fingernails ripped off. That’s the sound you’ll be making if you don’t cooperate.”

Rahal gritted his teeth silently.

“I can give you a clearer picture of what awaits you,” Zaia said, his lips so close Rahal could feel his breath on his ear. “Let me tell you a bit about what we do down here. We’re in the business of getting confessions, and we’re good at it. We’ll do whatever it takes. We break limbs. We smash kneecaps. We chop off ears and fingers and noses. We use fire and poison. I will put your face in water until you drown, then bring you back and do it all over again. I will whip you. I will beat you. I will cut off your cock and feed it to the pigs. Is that what you want me to do?”

Rahal swallowed hard, his stomach churning. “And I’m supposed to believe you’ll stop hurting me if I talk?”

“I’ll put you out of your misery. I won’t promise it will be quick.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Your attitude disappoints me.” He curled his fingers in Rahal’s hair and tugged. “Is your life worth so little to you that you’d throw it away for the prince? For Falena? A country that just _let_ me haul you off like a lowly criminal?”

Rahal gritted his teeth. “You just told me you’ll kill me anyway. So the value I place on my life doesn’t matter either way.”

“What’s left of your life, then. I can make it hellish for you. Or I can send you off swiftly. It’s your choice.”

“Do what you must.”

“Ah. But I know who you’re really protecting.” Zaia smirked. “Your friend. Roog. At least you thought he was your friend. Things have been… difficult between you lately, haven’t they?”

Rahal tensed. Back in Falena, Zaia had alluded to knowledge of political matters, but this—this was personal. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly.

“Don’t play games with me. I told you we had an agent watching you. He reported on every aspect of your life.”

But there was no way Zaia’s man could have known about their falling out. He’d never told anyone, not even Lun. He’d never written about it in letters, and Roog… well, Roog hadn’t bothered to correspond with him since he’d left Sauronix. 

“You’re bluffing,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Roog defended me back at the Sun Palace. You heard him.”

Zaia shrugged, lazily twirling a strand of Rahal’s hair around his finger. “Guilt will make people say all kinds of things. Now tell me—was he involved?”

“No.”

There came the ominous sound of metal scraping on metal, and then the cold steel edge of a blade settled against the spot where his ear met his head. Rahal tensed. 

“My cousin is sorely vexed about the scar you gave her yesterday,” Zaia purred. He rotated his wrist forward and the blade grazed the soft skin of Rahal’s earlobe. “I’m tempted to repay the debt. So I’ll ask you one last time—was Roog involved in your spying?”

“No,” Rahal whispered.

“That’s a shame.”

Zaia gripped Rahal’s earlobe with the other hand, and with one fluid motion, he severed it. Rahal shrieked, blood spilling down his neck as he grabbed at the wound, his fingers scrabbling over slick, raw flesh. 

“Quit your carrying on.” Zaia threw the earlobe onto the rushes next to Rahal. “I’ll be cutting off a lot worse if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

Rahal only let out a choked cry, refusing to meet Zaia’s eye.

Zaia sighed and snapped his fingers. Izil appeared, as if he’d been waiting just outside the entire time, and dragged Rahal to his feet. 

“Take him out back and flog him,” Zaia said. “I think twenty lashes should do it. Any more than that and he might pass out. If he still refuses to tell you anything…” He paused to sneer at Rahal, something sparking in his empty dun eyes. “Then we’ll take off the rest of the ear.”

*

They reached town just as the blood orange sun slipped below the horizon. The cobbled streets brimmed with shopkeepers closing up their storefronts, and the swell and ebb of laughter floated out from lantern-lit restaurants. Veiled women and men in fine robes bustled past them. Self-conscious and surrounded by Nagarists, Roog put up his hood and stuck close by Isaara’s side. He was large enough that he stood out in a crowd. Some passers-by were already fixing them with curious stares.

“Let’s hurry,” he hissed.

“We are almost there,” Isaara said. “The inn is only one block away.”

True to her word, they reached it in a matter of minutes. The tavern on the ground floor was packed, and the din of voices and the clatter of dishes made it difficult to hear each other. Isaara motioned to the bar, where a harried-looking young man was busy pouring tankards of dark, frothing ale. They approached him, weaving between the crowded tables.

Isaara spoke to him in Nagarist. He shook his head and replied.

She turned to Roog. “There is only one room available. Single bed.”

“Take it. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Are you certain?” Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“Yeah. Don’t really have anywhere else to go, do I?”

She shrugged and turned back to the man. While they negotiated, Roog listened to the conversations swirling around him, conversations he couldn’t understand but imagined were snatches of gossip and small talk and political discourse. Had Zaia passed through this tavern with Rahal in tow? Had someone sitting at one of these tables seen them? He was in the presence of people who might know something, and yet he couldn’t ask.

Isaara turned to him and said, under her breath, “Our room is on the top floor. We will go up there now and we can speak privately.”

They squeezed their packs up three flights of narrow stairwells and emerged into a low-ceilinged hallway. The dingy grey walls were water stained, and Roog had to stoop to keep from smacking his head on the rafters. There were three doors. Isaara directed him to the one on their right, and she unlocked it, letting them into an equally drab room. It was furnished sparsely with a bed and a lopsided table. Roog took it all in, dismayed.

“It is nothing special,” Isaara said, as if in apology, “but we have no other choice.”

“It’s depressing."

“It is for one night. Do not complain.”

Roog pointed at the bed. The mattress, probably once white, was stippled with dried blotches of blood and piss and runes knew what else. “You sure you wanna sleep on that?”

Isaara looked at it. “No. I will take the floor.”

“Like hell you will. I called the floor already.”

“Would you deny an old lady?”

“Old lady? Give me a break…”

“I am hungry. I will bring us some food.” Isaara pulled her scarf down off her head and looped it around her neck. Her silver hair was dark with sweat. “It would be better if you remained up here until we depart tomorrow. We do not want people asking questions.”

“I was kind of hoping for a bath.”

“You will have to do without.” 

“C’mon, Isaara, I stink.”

“I do not mind a man who smells.”

She disappeared downstairs and returned twenty minutes later with two glasses, a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and four cabbage rolls. As Isaara poured the wine, Roog dug into his food. He was hungrier than he’d realized, so hungry that at some point, his knotted stomach had ceased its futile rumbling. He’d had only jerky and a bit of fruit on the journey to Nagarea. Isaara watched him eat with a small smile curving her lips.

“What do you plan to do next?” she asked him. 

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“You are not a very organized man, are you?”

Roog shook his head and washed the bread down with a gulp of wine. “I didn’t have time to think about it, okay? Everything happened so fast.”

“Then I will say to you again: let me help you.”

Roog quietly set down his glass. Trust and distrust still warred within him, but more than that, he felt the wall against his back. With such a limited knowledge of the Nagarist tongue, he wouldn’t get far if he set out alone. No one would be able to understand him. Someone might even turn him over to Zaia. His uncertainty about what to do next was the least of his problems.

And Isaara had stood by him all this way, never faltering in her word.

“My friend is in the custody of a man named Zaia,” he said slowly.

Isaara frowned. “Zaia, you say?”

“Do you know him?”

“I do not know him personally. But I have heard of him. He is not well regarded by the king or his people, but he does have influence in matters of state. He owns a parcel of land in the southwest.”

Roog picked at his bread, absently rolling a piece of dough between his fingers. “How far from here?”

“If we go by horse, two days. By foot? That depends how fast you can walk.” She steepled her fingers against her lips. “Tell me everything, Roog. How did this happen?”

She listened patiently as he told her what had happened in Sol-Falena—about his position in the Dragon Cavalry, about Miakis’s plan, about Rahal’s involvement, and how it had all gone to hell so fast. The only thing he left out was his quarrel with Rahal. He was ashamed to even think about it now, much less give it words.

“There is something I must tell you, and you will not like it,” she said, once he had finished, and poured them both another glass of wine. “You have heard me speak about ideologies held by some of my countrymen. Disagreeable ideologies.”

“Like hating the Dragon Cavalry, you mean?”

“Indeed. As a Cavalryman, I am not surprised you are familiar with them.”

Roog snorted. “My grandmother lived through the Nagarist invasion. I’ve heard all the stories.”

“Many Nagarists, myself included, have distanced themselves from those ideologies,” she continued. “But there are some who cling to the past. Zaia is one of those people. He stands for the complete eradication of the Dragon Cavalry—or so I hear—and he is known for his brutality. Not just to outsiders and criminals, but to his vassals as well. It is said that he never lets a prisoner leave his fortress alive. I fear for your friend, Roog. His membership in the Dragon Cavalry can only hurt him."

“Then what do we do?”

“To do anything may be futile. It may be too late…”

“I didn’t come this far to do nothing. Even if Rahal’s already dead, I’ll kill Zaia myself.”

Isaara smiled down into her wine. “The more you speak of him, the more I am convinced of the truth behind those Cavalrymen rumours.”

“Rumours?” Roog frowned.

“That the men lie with each other.”

“For gods’ sake, Isaara, this isn’t exactly the time—“

She laughed and waved a hand at him. “I apologize, I apologize. I promised I will help in any way I can, and I shall. We must first determine where he is being held. I imagine Zaia had to report to the king when he returned from Falena—in which case, he might have left your friend at the royal palace.”

“How are we supposed to figure that out?”

“We will go to the capital and inquire about high-profile prisoners. If the king is holding a Falenan, then I assure you it will be a topic of discussion at the tavern.”

“And then?”

“I do not know. Breaking someone out of the royal dungeons will be all but impossible.”

Roog nodded slowly. “What if he isn’t there?”

“Then logic dictates he is being held at Zaia’s fortress. But we will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Roog threw a piece of bread at her. “You’re seriously gonna say that to me with a straight face after harassing me all the way down the mountainside about my lack of planning?”

“I am already thinking of options.” She pushed the cork into the bottle of wine and wrapped the remaining bread back up in the basket. “But it has been a long day and I am ready for bed. We will set out early. We must reach Rahal soon if we hope to find him alive.”

While Isaara brought their dishes down to the kitchen, Roog stripped off his sweaty shirt and spread his cloak out over the filthy mattress. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. The rafters were warped and festooned with cobwebs. Somewhere nearby, a headboard thumped rhythmically against a paper-thin wall. Roog closed his eyes and tried to block it out. How was he going to sleep tonight, knowing that every minute they wasted brought Rahal closer to his doom?

But he must have drifted, because he didn’t hear Isaara return or blow out the candle. He started awake only when a door slammed down the hall, followed by a peal of laughter. The room was dark. He could hear Isaara breathing from the floor at the end of the bed.

“Isaara.”

“Yes?”

“You said you were touched by something I said about Rahal last night. What was it?”

She laughed softly. “You were quite intoxicated. You said many things.”

“But was there something in particular?”

“Yes. You said he is the light of your soul. And that his beauty blinds like the sun.”

Roog’s cheeks burned in the darkness. He never would have said such a thing while sober—hell, he was surprised he’d even said it while drunk. Who would have thought he was such a bad poet?

“Isaara?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

And she said simply, “Because it is the right thing to do.”


	7. Seven

The following day, Roog and Isaara reached the capital well after nightfall. Roog kept his hood up while Isaara negotiated the rate for their rooms, his eyes scanning the tavern, taking in the grizzled old gentleman nursing a tankard of ale in the corner, the young couple canoodling by the fire, the pair of gamblers hunched over a game of chinchirorin. They’d planned to interrogate the inn’s guests, but he doubted these people knew anything. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t take kindly to the interruption.

He glanced at Isaara. She was speaking heatedly in the Nagarist tongue, jabbing her finger at the owner, who was gesticulating in what appeared to be equal frustration. They’d been at it for ten minutes now. Roog cleared his throat, and when Isaara paused in her tirade to glance at him, he motioned her over.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“He is trying to charge me an exorbitant sum for our rooms,” she explained. “He is demanding five-hundred potch _each_.”

“So? Just pay the man.”

“Those rooms are worth no more than eighty potch,” she insisted. “Trust me. I have stayed here before. There were cockroaches, and someone left a mouldy, half-eaten sandwich under my bed. It was blue, Roog. Blue and furry.”

Roog shook his head. “Dammit, Isaara, we can’t be making enemies here. We need information. Now. Preferably from this guy. He probably hears a lot of gossip.”

Isaara sighed. “You are right. Forgive me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He dug a handful of coins out of his pocket and slapped them into her hand. “I’ll take our stuff upstairs. While you’re paying, just mention that you heard talk of a foreign prisoner on your travels. See what he says. Got it?”

She nodded and went back to the proprietor, resuming their conversation in calmer tones. She pushed the money across the counter. He smiled and handed her two keys. She said something in Nagarist, bowed her head, then brought the keys to Roog.

“Rooms eight and nine. Just up the stairs,” she said. “I will be up shortly.”

When he got to his room, Roog dropped to his knees and checked under the bed for mouldy sandwiches, but the floor was blessedly clear of cockroach fodder. Satisfied, he kicked off his boots and sat on the wool-stuffed mattress with the map Isaara kept in her pack. She’d circled Zaia’s stronghold in red ink and traced the route that would take them there. 

A day’s ride, she’d said, or two to three by foot. Too long, either way. Too long by far. 

Assuming Rahal had even been taken there.

Roog pushed open the shutters next to the bed and poked his head out. He could see the castle, an ominous block of dark stone, looming at the top of the boulevard. Rahal might be there right now, locked up in its bowels. Waiting for Roog to come for him. Battered, beaten, definitely bloody, but never hopeless. Unless he was already—

 _No. I’d know it if he was. Wouldn’t I?_ He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and flopped back on the bed, just as Isaara threw open the door and bustled inside.

“I have news,” she announced. “He is alive.”

The tension that had gripped him for the past week seemed to leave in a flood. Roog propped himself up on one elbow, allowing himself his first genuine grin in days. “Really? That’s great!”

Isaara held up a hand. “Allow me to clarify. He was not dead when he left here.” 

“Then Zaia has him?”

“I am afraid so.” She sat next to him and placed a gentle hand on his knee. “They left here three days ago. Apparently it was quite the spectacle. The young man downstairs said they tied him to a horse and made him walk.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “He was in a bad way, Roog. I cannot lie to you.”

The tension slithered back, curling into a knot between his lungs. “Well, it’s not what I wanted to hear, but at least it’s a step forward.”

Isaara nodded. “Yes. We must remain optimistic.” She snatched up the map and studied it for a moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “I will buy us a horse and cart tonight, as well as food and water. We must depart early tomorrow morning if we are to make good time.” 

“Why do we need a cart?”

“If Rahal is still alive, I suspect he will be in no shape to walk or sit a horse. We will transport him in the cart.” She rose and rubbed her hands together. “Now, my dear, onto lighter matters. We must discuss your… unique aroma. You stink to the heavens and I can stand it no longer. This inn is quiet enough that it should be safe to take a bath. I will arrange for it at the front desk, and you will freshen up while I am out.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “I will also acquire you some new clothes. Now that you are in Nagarea, you should dress like the rest of us.”

*

The indigo sky simmered, restless, churning above Rahal like the contents of a cauldron. Dead, dry grass crunched under his boots as he walked through a freshly-cut field. For miles around, he could see naught but open plains. There were no trees, no mountains, no streams or rivers to break the monotony. The air hung on him heavy and damp. It smelled electric, like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

He’d been walking for hours—or at least, what felt like hours. 

Soon, he saw a figure standing in the distance. As he approached, he made out a red jacket, and a smooth, shiny scalp, and he realized it was Roog. His arms were crossed, his teeth bared in an unsettling grin, his hard, unblinking eyes as black as obsidian stones.

“You just couldn’t stay away, could you?” he hissed.

Rahal looked at him, opened his mouth to speak. The words wouldn’t come.

“Pathetic, as usual.”

Roog knelt and pulled his knife from his boot, where he’d always kept it tucked safely away. And then he stalked towards Rahal, the knife glinting in his hand. Rahal tried to back away, but his feet refused to cooperate, so instead he went very still as Roog's solid bulk leaned up against him, as his lips grazed Rahal’s hair.

“You want me, don’t you?” Roog asked.

 Rahal’s eyes widened. 

“Of course you do,” Roog said. His thumb traced the curve of Rahal’s cheek and came to settle on his lower lip. “But I don’t need you.”

And then he plunged the knife into Rahal’s gut.

Rahal awoke with a start, gasping and disoriented, at first not knowing where he was. Slowly, the world came into focus—tall sandstone walls, the bright glare of the sun, splotches of blood dried black on hard-packed dirt. His legs ached. His arms were numb. His back tingled, smarted, sparked like fire when he flexed his muscles. A hard slab of wood rested against his cheek. He realized he was on his knees in Zaia’s courtyard, chained to his whipping post, and groaned.

“He’s awake,” said Izil’s voice behind him. 

“How long did he last?” Zaia’s voice, cold and deadpan.

“Seventeen lashes.”

“Hmph. I didn’t tell you to stop.”

“I can finish—”

“No. I will.”

There came the creak of leather, soft footfalls as Zaia approached him, the susurration of the lash dragging through the dirt. The sounds ceased and Rahal tensed, squeezing his eyes shut. A moment of anxious silence, of waiting, followed—and then the lash sang, cutting into his already abused flesh. He grunted and clung to the post, steeling himself against the two blows that followed.

“Do you have anything to tell me?” Zaia asked, when it was done.

Rahal licked his lips. They were so dry they’d begun to peel, just like his sunburnt chest and shoulders. He felt blood trickling down the back of his legs, pooling under his knees, and he thought of the warning Zaia had given him earlier—that he’d take off the rest of Rahal’s ear if he refused to cooperate. But what was his ear worth, compared to Roog’s life, the prince’s reputation, the fate of his homeland? “Nothing at all,” he said.

“”I’m starting to think you enjoy this,” Zaia snapped. His fist caught Rahal in the back of the head, cracking it forward against the post. “Any other man would have spilled his guts by now, but not you, oh no. You keep asking for more. And for what? To protect a weakling prince and a child queen who has no right to rule.”

Rahal blinked against the dark spots that crowded his vision. “I’m not protecting them.”

“No, of course you aren’t. You’re protecting that oaf friend of yours. He doesn’t care about you. He didn’t try to stop me from taking you away. He’s not coming to rescue you, don’t you understand?” Zaia paused. “Do you really think he’d keep his peace, if your positions were reversed?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does matter. You’re suffering for someone who wouldn’t do the same for you. You’re suffering for nothing. And you’ll die for nothing.”

_He called you names. He said he hated you. He shoved you when you tried to make amends. He tore your pearls out of your hair and called you an idiot. He hates you. He’ll never forgive you._

“Stop it,” he said.

Zaia chuckled. “Did I hit a nerve?” When Rahal didn’t answer, he went on: “If you want to hold out on me, be my guest. But I can keep this up for weeks. Don’t forget that.” He snapped his fingers. “Izil—get him out of my sight.”

*

Later, as Rahal lay in his cell, half delirious with pain, another memory came to him, so nebulous he couldn’t quite tell if it was real or delusion. It was of Roog’s face, catching sight of him in his dress at the top of the stairs at the Sun Palace. His amber eyes had widened, his pupils dilating, his gaze locking with Rahal’s for an instant before devouring the rest of him. The jewels in his hair. The white dress. The smooth ankles that flashed under the hem as he descended the steps.  

Others had looked at him like that before. The women who lusted after him in Sauronix. Craig, in the weeks leading up to their affair, and on a few occasions after. Never Roog, though; he’d always reserved that look for Miakis. 

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe he’d seen what he wanted to see. Because the heat had left Roog’s eyes as soon as Rahal reached his side, replaced by an implacable coolness. 

But he held on to the memory anyway. It gave him something to fight for.

*

Freshly washed, shaved, and dressed in a set of beige robes Isaara had procured for him, Roog loaded their bags into the wagon she’d parked in the alley behind the inn. Dawn was an hour off yet. The sky, an aphotic purple, still glimmered with winking stars. If anyone else was out and about, he hadn’t seen them; the inn was silent, the streets empty, and Isaara had gone back up to her room to double-check she hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d been ready to leave for hours, had barely slept the night before. All he could think about was getting to Zaia’s castle.

He climbed up into the wagon, scratching furiously at his chest, and sat on the bench behind the two horses. The robes were made of cheap wool—weird, he’d thought, for a climate as unforgiving as this, but Isaara had insisted they were the best she could get on such short notice, and at such a decent price—and he’d been itchy since he put them on. The only saving grace was that Isaara had let him keep the undershorts he’d brought from Falena; the last thing he needed right now was the relentless, excruciating need to scratch his balls.

“Is everything ready?” Isaara asked as she slipped out the back door of the inn. A blue scarf floated over her hair, and she carried a small package under her arm. She put it on the seat next to him, then accepted his outstretched hand and let him hoist her up onto the wagon. “Who is driving?”

“You.”

“Me?” She chuckled and took up the reins. “I thought you were the expert in horses.”

“Dragon horses,” he corrected. “And I’ve only ever ridden one. Never tried to wrangle a team of them.”

Isaara snapped the reins. “Fair enough. I am more than happy to drive. I merely thought it would be polite to offer you the opportunity first.”

“I appreciate it. What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the package she’d brought on board.

“Ah. That is a wheel of cheese I smuggled from the kitchen. I am sure they will not notice its absence…”

They rode in silence until they left the city, lulled by the rocking wagon and the gentle clop of hooves on cobblestone. The plains beyond civilization were empty, broken only by the occasional cluster of trees and a stream that wended alongside them just north of the road. At midday, they stopped briefly to water the horses and nibble at Isaara’s stolen cheese before setting off again. 

Soon, the landscape began to change. The grass gave way to packed red earth, littered with stones and brittle, dried out shrubs. Without the shelter of trees, the sun beat down on them, hot enough that Roog had to shrug out of his robe and let it pool around his waist. Beads of sweat glimmered on his arms, trickled down his spine. Isaara glanced at him, but said nothing. He wondered if she was any cooler under her cotton clothes. 

She consulted her map. “At the pace we are moving, we should arrive by late tomorrow afternoon. We will sleep under the stars tonight, but we must decide on a plan soon.”

“Okay, well, what do you know about Zaia’s fortress?”

“Nothing. I have never been there. I live on the southeastern coast, closer to the capital, and have never had occasion to come out west. But we may assume a few things.” She raised a finger. “One: his castle will be well fortified. Two,” and she raised another, “he will have men posted at the gates, with a few on patrol. And three: Rahal, if he is still alive, will be locked up somewhere… most likely in a prison under the castle.”

“So our first move should be to get around the guys at the gate.”

“Precisely. But it may be impossible to do so furtively; in which case, we must find a legitimate way into the castle.”

“Any ideas?”

“We can observe, from a distance, who comes and goes, and make our decisions based on what we see. One thing comes to mind, however…” 

“Yeah?”

“We can pretend to be villagers, complaining to our lord about our neighbours. They have always been rotten. Perhaps this time they have stolen our sheep. Oh! Perhaps they have been amorous with the sheep—”

“Whoa, whoa, let’s not get carried away,” Roog interjected. “We’re not supposed to be bringing attention to ourselves, remember? If we go in there complaining about people doing things to our sheep, Zaia’s gonna notice us, which is bad news, because he’s seen my face before. Come back to reality, will ya?”

Isaara sighed theatrically. “Yes, of course.”

“Let’s just do what you suggested and scope the place out first. Then we can focus on part two of our plan.”

“Perhaps next time.” She smiled and bumped her shoulder against his. “But you must admit, I have a delightful imagination.”

“Yeah. You’re a storyteller, all right.”

The wagon clattered onwards.

*

The priest came to him again later that night. He eased Rahal onto his belly and sponged the lash wounds on his back and ass, rubbed him down with ointment, checked the splint that cradled his broken hand. Rahal wordlessly let him do it, too drained to be humiliated. When the priest was done, he turned Rahal over again, cradled him, and brought a cup of water to his lips.

Rahal drank it gratefully. “Does Zaia know you’re doing this?”

The priest nodded.

“Do you do this for all the prisoners?”

Again, he nodded, beginning to put his bottles and cloths back in his satchel. Rahal watched him for a moment, then decided to try another tack.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked.

The priest hesitated before nodding a third time. Avoiding Rahal’s eye now, he snapped the satchel shut and took the water cup from Rahal’s hand.

“Then you believe what Zaia believes,” Rahal said flatly. “That I deserve this for being a Dragon Cavalryman.”

At this, the priest’s head shot up, and he shook it, vehement, his pale brown eyes blazing, his thin lips curving downward at the corners.

“Why do you stay here, then?”

The priest reached out and pressed his palm over Rahal’s heart. The warmth of his touch against Rahal’s skin was a welcome feeling after a week of torment, and despite himself, Rahal found himself leaning into it.

“For me?” he said.

The priest shook his head and swept his hand in an arc around the room.

“For all of us,” Rahal said.

The priest nodded once.

Rahal was quiet for a minute. “What are the others down here for?”

The priest looked up at the ceiling, grunting, his face twisting, then made a slicing motion across his throat with one finger. 

“Murder?” Rahal guessed, and the priest nodded. “Do you see me the same way you see them? As a criminal?”

The priest shook his head again. And it came to Rahal, suddenly, that this man might be the key to escaping this hellhole—that he had an ally down here, where he’d thought he was alone. With a wince, he sat up fully and reached out to grasp the priest’s arm.

“Will you help me?” he asked. The priest tilted his head, his eyes narrowing, and Rahal went on, “Help me escape this place.” When the priest recoiled, Rahal grasped his arm tighter. “Please. Zaia is going to kill me if you don’t. If you don’t see me as a criminal, then you must have some reservations—”

The priest rose quickly, clutching his satchel to his chest, and stepped away from Rahal. His eyes were wide in his withered old face, and he’d sucked his lower lip between his teeth, was biting it so hard it had gone bloodless. He stared at Rahal for a moment, frozen, as if his feet were glued to the floor but another force was trying to pull him away. But then he seemed to snap out of it, and made for the door.

“Please!” Rahal cried desperately, flinging himself at the priest, grasping the hem of his robe. But the fabric slipped through his fingers, and the door slammed shut with a heavy finality. 

*

“You will have to shave your head.”

Roog choked on the pork bun Isaara had packed for him. “Excuse me?”

“You look much too conspicuous with that… that…” She gestured at his head, searching for the right words. “That ridiculous strip of hair.”

“It’s called a mohawk. And I’ve had it for ten years. I’m not shaving it.”

“It is just hair. It will grow back.”

“It’s an important part of my identity!”

“In all my fifty-eight years, I have never seen such a haircut in Nagarea. You will stick out like a sore thumb at Zaia’s fortress. It must go.”

“Well, I can’t shave it. I didn’t bring a razor.”

“I did.”

Roog sighed and put down the pork bun. “I should’ve known.”

As Isaara rummaged through the wagon bed in search of the razor and a bar of soap, Roog ran a hand over his hair. He’d lied when he said his mohawk was an important part of his identity. It was about much more than that. In times of stress, the rough bristles against his palm had calmed him, helped him think clearly, had kept him alive in lethal situations. It made him look threatening, formidable, like the kind of guy you shouldn’t fuck with. Grown men had cowered before him on more than one occasion.

The last time he’d had a shave—a week ago, now—Miakis had wielded the blade. Her hands had been feather-light on his scalp, the razor barely there, but she’d managed to cut him anyway. She’d cursed, apologized, pressed a towel to the flowing wound and bent over him with his head cushioned between her breasts. She’d looked so dismayed, her face pinched in a pout and a frown, that he couldn’t help laughing. But the truth was, he hadn’t minded, not when he could hear feel her heartbeat racing against his ear. 

It was different with Isaara. She grabbed his head between no-nonsense hands and trimmed his mohawk until it matched the week’s worth of growth that stubbled the rest of his scalp. And then she got to shaving. She was quick, methodical, as if she’d done it hundreds of times before, and so careful that she didn’t so much as nick his skin. When she was done, she rubbed his head clean with a towel.

“How does it look?” he asked.

She looked at him with a critical eye and shrugged. “It ages you.”

“Seriously? How many years are we talking?” He rubbed a hand self-consciously over his smooth scalp.

“Does it matter?” She’d jumped off the back of the wagon with the bundle of firewood they’d packed, but she turned to him now, hands on her hips. “Eight years, perhaps. Now please come down here and help me build a fire. The sun is setting.”

*

They woke him in the morning with a bucket of cold water. Rahal lay there, gasping, teeth chattering, until Nenet and Izil heaved him to his feet, hauled him down the dark, narrow corridor to a cavernous room at its feet. They threw him into a rickety wooden chair and chained his wrists to the arms of it. Zaia was already there, waiting there for him.

“I’m going to get right to the point,” Zaia said, pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “A little bird told me you tried to get one of my people to help you escape.”

“But I—”

“Shut up. I didn’t give you permission to speak.” He stopped in front of Rahal. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I allowed my household priest to tend to you. And this is how you repay me? Are you so stupid that you’d think you could just walk out of here?” Teeth bared, he slammed his fist down on Rahal’s broken hand, and Rahal screamed. Patiently, Zaia waited for the screams to fade to whimpers before he added, “Let me make something very clear. The only reason you’re alive is because I don’t want to kill you yet.”

Rahal blinked back tears. “You need me.”

“No, you idiot.” Zaia shook his head. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I don’t really care about information. I already know you weren’t acting alone. And even if you did confess, our useless, bleeding heart of a king wouldn’t do anything about it. He wants to ‘mend bridges’ and ‘fix friendships’ with Falena.”

“Then why—”

“Because your way of life disgusts me,” Zaia snapped, “and I want you to suffer. I want the Dragon Cavalry to fall.”

Rahal’s laugh came out ragged. “I am not the Dragon Cavalry. It will go on without me.”

“You’re probably right.” Zaia cracked his knuckles and resumed his pacing. Rahal watched him warily. “But you stand for everything the Dragon Cavalry is. So hurting you is the next best thing.”

“Why do you hate us so much?”

“I told you to shut up.” 

 _He doesn’t know_. The realization settled like a sickness in the pit of his gut. Zaia had probably been indoctrinated at a young age, never taught to question the beliefs that had damned Nagarea in the eyes of its neighbours, that had led to its isolation from the rest of the continent. His entire world view had been shaped by the conviction that dragon horses—and, by their association, the dragon horse people—were unclean, so unclean that they must be destroyed. There was no reasoning with that kind of fanaticism.

“And you say I’m pathetic,” he said softly.

Zaia glared at him. “What?”

Rahal swallowed hard and glanced at Nenet, at Izil. They looked ready to break his arms at the slightest provocation. “You hate me because long ago, someone said you should,” he said. “You can’t even tell me why. If that’s not pathetic, I don’t know what is.”

Nenet smacked him across the face with such force that he bit the inside of his cheek. Grimacing, Rahal prodded his teeth with his tongue, felt one coming loose near the back of his mouth. He wiggled it free and spat it out in a glob of blood.

“You have a lot of nerve to call me that, when you’re chained naked to a chair and drooling blood,” Zaia snapped. He leaned over Rahal, bracing himself with his hands on the arms of the chair. “I’ll tell you a little secret. Kings don’t stay kings forever. Especially when they’re weak. Ours may not have the guts to do what’s best for Nagarea, but I do.”

“So you’re planning a coup,” Rahal said.

“You finally catch on.”

“But what do I have to do with that?” he asked.

Zaia chuckled, thumbing the blood from Rahal’s lower lip. “You’re my reason to invade Falena. You spied on us, conspired against us, humiliated us in front of the entire Falenan court. Because of you, your country—and all the people you love—will burn.”

It all made sense now. Zaia had come to Falena as the Nagarist envoy, not to create a relationship on behalf of his king, but to get a sense of the country for himself, to build on the intelligence his spy had gathered, to provoke the Dragon Cavalry into doing something regrettable. Perhaps he’d known all along that this would be the outcome. No—he must have known. 

Rahal gritted his teeth. “But without proof—”

“I don’t need proof. The entire court saw you. They heard you admit to spying. They’re probably expecting us to retaliate in some way.”

“You promised the queen you wouldn’t, as long as you had me.”

“I never promised anything.”

“Then kill me or let me go!” Furious, Rahal thrashed against his bonds, the wooden chair creaking ominously under him. That they would keep him here, after admitting they didn’t need him, just so they could toy with him—it was too much. “You cowards!”

“I think not. We’re having too much fun.”

“Fuck you,” he hissed. His hair had fallen in front of his face, catching in his mouth and sticking to the wet blood on his cheek. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used those words. It might have been years. “You’ll pay for this.”

Zaia gazed at him stonily. “Nenet, bring me your knife.” He uncrossed his arms as Nenet handed him the weapon, and he raised it, taking a step toward Rahal. “We’ll start with the eyes.”


	8. Eight

Mid-afternoon on the second day of their journey, Zaia’s fortress appeared on the horizon. Roog sat up straighter on the bench when he caught sight of it, his pulse quickening. Until now, the fortress had been an evanescent concept, a mirage he’d imagined himself storming at least a dozen times over the past two days. But now that he’d seen the reality of it, he realized how difficult that would be.

Dark stone walls rose forty feet against the cloudless sky. The heavy iron gates were shut tight, bolted, undoubtedly, from the other side. Indistinct shouts floated over the bulwark, along with the clangour of hammers on wood, the peal of iron being worked on the forge. Trails of smoke curled from the chimneys, and he could see people moving on the battlements—Zaia’s men, who had probably already noticed them trundling up the road. There was nowhere to hide out here. And they’d passed the last village several hours ago. He started to sweat again. 

“We will continue past the castle,” Isaara murmured, as if she’d read his mind. “The next settlement cannot be far. We will go there and decide what to do next.”

“What if they stop us?”

“Why would they stop us?” she said. “This is the main road through these parts. Unless we have business at the castle, they have no reason to search our wagon.” She pointed. “Look. There is a fork in the road up ahead. We will stay to the left. It will keep us a safe distance from the castle.”

As they passed the fortress, Roog glanced up, uneasy, at the men on the ramparts. A few of them returned his gaze; others ignored him entirely, their spears tucked close by their sides, their eyes shadowed by steel visors. To them, he was just another traveling peddler, another impoverished labourer looking for work. They had no way of knowing his every thought was possessed by the man they held in the bowels of their castle.

Or that he’d taken note of their positions on the walls, their spears and curved swords, their hauberks and plated mail. That he was considering, already, how best to take them down.

Soon, the castle was but a speck at their backs, and Roog began to doubt Isaara’s claim that civilization lay out here in the wilderness. For miles around, there was nothing but bare earth, pocked here and there with patches of dry grass. He sighed, dug the last piece of the cheese wheel Isaara had stolen from the inn out of her bag, and split it in two. He handed her the larger half.

“Getting in will be difficult. I am sure I could weasel through the gates with some excuse, but you? They would know at once that you are Falenan. And there is no way to sneak in. The castle is too heavily fortified.” Isaara bit into the cheese and chewed for a minute, thinking. “I have never seen a castle manned in such a way outside of war.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Roog murmured.

“I do wonder what it means.”

Roog grimaced. “You don’t think he could be planning to attack Falena, do you?”

“Not without the king’s consent—and I find it difficult to believe the king would launch war on Falena.” Isaara shook the reins lightly, steering the horses around an armadillon carcass that lay in the road. “I have been out of the country for some months now, but last I heard, he was desperate to make friends with Queen Lymsleia.”

“So what are we gonna do?”

Isaara tutted. “Why must I always come up with the plan?”

“You said yourself I’m hopeless at it!”

“That does not mean I should—”

Roog slammed his fist on the bench. Startled, the horses snorted and tossed their heads, breaking into a nervous trot. “For runes’ sake, Isaara, there’s no time for this! They could be killing him right now, for all we know—”

“You must remain calm,” Isaara said. She pulled hard on the reins, swearing under her breath in Nagarist, and tried to get the horses under control.

“I can’t think straight.”

Isaara breathed in deeply, closing her eyes. “Very well. When we arrive at the village—”

“There’s no village, Isaara.”

“There must be.”

Roog balled his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Why did she have to be so goddamn stubborn? “Even if it does exist, we don’t have time for this bullshit. We have to do something. Now.”

Isaara went silent, but she guided the horses off the road and brought the wagon to a stop. The sun inched toward the horizon. They had another hour of daylight—two, at most. If they didn’t act now, they would have to wait until tomorrow, and tomorrow might be too late. Roog couldn’t sit still. His skin felt too tight for his body, like his bones and tendons and muscles had swelled to bursting from their sheath. 

Isaara turned to him. “This is what we will do. We will unhitch the horses. I will ride one back to the castle and say we were attacked by a pack of ulse—that you have been gravely injured and require immediate assistance. While I am doing this, you will take the other horse and circle back—widely, mind you—under cover of darkness. You will enter the open gates, find Rahal, and get out as soon as you can.”

“You’ll open the gates from the inside?”

“No,” said Isaara, matter-of-factly. “I am going to set the castle on fire. The gates will open when people start to flee.”

Roog whistled. “Damn, you don’t mess around.”

“Indeed not.” She jumped out of the wagon and started to unhitch the horses. “But I hope you understand how dangerous this is. We have not had the chance to get—how do you say it? The lay of the land?—and finding Rahal in such a large castle will be difficult.” She stood up straight and blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “This is dangerous, Roog. For me, for you, for him.”

“It’ll be fine. If everyone’s panicking and running around, they won’t notice us.”

“The danger I am referring to has nothing to do with Zaia’s men. If the fire traps one of us, or Rahal…”

He climbed down next to her and helped lead the horses free of the wagon. He hadn’t wanted to think of that possibility. “I know. But we don’t have any other choice.”

“We can still take the night to come up with something better—”

“No. I can’t wait around anymore, Isaara.” He chanced a glance at her and saw that her dark eyes were soft despite the grit in her voice. Maybe she did understand, after all. When she reached out to touch his arm, he covered her wrinkled hand with his own. “Let’s do this.”

“Yes. We will take only what we need.” She boosted herself up into the wagon bed and started rummaging through their things. “Food. Water. The map. And money. Perhaps a blanket for Rahal. It gets cold at night, out in the open.”

She passed him the blanket, and he draped it over his horse’s back. Next came his pack and a small drawstring bag heavy with coin. He fastened the pack to the saddle and tied the coin purse to his belt.

“Weapons,” Isaara said, snapping her fingers. “You have the knife in your boot. A sword might be cumbersome if you are running about in the dark. But it could also be the difference between life and death, if someone catches you…” She hemmed and hawed for a moment, her hands on her hips, her gaze sweeping over the contents of the wagon bed, before she bent down and took up his sword. She tossed it to him. “Better to take it. Just keep it hidden under your cloak.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I have my fists,” she said. 

“Isaara…”

“Yes, yes, I will take a knife as well. But I am a Nagarist. They will not see me as a threat.”

Roog snorted. “Even after you set their castle on fire?”

“Well, I am not going to do it right in front of them.”

She did a final sweep of the wagon before she clambered down, accepting Roog’s hand when he reached up to help her. For a moment, she stood looking at him, holding his arms, as if she were etching his face on her memory. As if she feared she’d never see it again. Her eyes traced the curve of his lips, the strong line of his nose, the flat planes of his cheeks, before they finally met his own. And she smiled at him.

“I have enjoyed our travels together,” she said.

“So have I,” he said. “Even though we had a rocky start.”

“And whose fault was that?”

He laughed and pulled her into a hug. With her fragile bones, she felt as small as a child in his arms. “We’ll see each other again, won’t we?”

“Yes, of course.” She patted his back. “Unless you are intending to leave me behind once you have found Rahal. In which case, I must object.” She pulled away, holding him at arm’s length again. “Do you remember those ruins we passed, two hours before we reached Zaia’s castle? I will wait for you there, and then we will ride north-east, keeping to the woods.”

He nodded. “What if we get separated somehow?”

“I hope it does not come to that.” She pulled out the map, unfolded it, and circled a small town on the southeastern coast. “This is where I live. If we should become separated, I will meet you there, and then I will secure us a boat to Falena.” She folded the map and handed it back to him. “Take care to keep off the road.”

Roog slipped the map into his belt, next to the coin purse. “I will.”

“Good. Now, I will be off.” She hoisted herself up into the saddle with a grace that belied her age. “Remember, use the darkness as your cloak. Stay well away from the castle until you see the flames.” She turned the horse and trotted past him. “Good luck. I will see you soon.”

And then she was off. He watched her until she disappeared beyond a slope in the road—until he was alone again, truly alone, for the first time in days. The only sound was the sibilant wind over the plains. The setting sun cast his shadow, long and monstrous, across the path. He shivered despite the humidity. He wanted to go home, to Falena, with Rahal by his side, and forget he’d ever come to this strange, hostile place.

But there was work to do yet. He mounted his horse and set off, at a gallop, for Zaia’s stronghold.

*

“Come on, Isaara,” he said under his breath. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

He’d been watching Zaia’s castle for what felt like hours, sprawled on his belly on a bed of dried grass three-hundred yards from the curtain wall. He’d left his horse secured to a withered eucalyptus tree just east of where he lay, far enough that it would be invisible from the castle, but not so far that he couldn’t reach it quickly once he’d found Rahal. 

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness; he could see that armoured men still paced on the battlements, illuminated by flickering torchlight. But the castle was otherwise quiet. He figured it was half past ten—maybe eleven o’clock—and that most of its inhabitants were already in their beds, sleeping, reading, or fucking their wives. So where was Isaara? She’d had a head start on him. She should have been here by now.

He sighed and dropped his chin onto his arms. The worst part of all this sitting around was that it had given him time to think, had given his imagination time to run wild. What if Rahal really was dead? What if they’d tortured him to insanity? What if they’d cut him up, or burned him, or flayed him to the bone? The thought of his pearly skin, ruined like that… Gods, it was too much!

“Just keep it together, man,” he murmured. “Keep it together.”

He lay in silence for interminable minutes until a shout went up at the castle. It was faint, almost swallowed by the wind, but his ears pricked at the sound of it. He pushed himself up onto his knees and listened, holding his breath. More silence followed—but then, yes, there was another shout, louder this time, joined by a chorus of alarmed voices. Suddenly, there was screaming. Smoke billowed from the inner courtyard, trailing into the starlit sky, chased by the crackle of flames. Tongues of fire leapt in the north-facing windows on the lower floor. It was his sign.

He crept forward, keeping low to the ground, as the screams grew shrill, desperate. With a tremendous groan, the iron gates began to open. Out poured a tumult of women in nightshirts, wailing children, armoured men, all stumbling over each other, some tripping, falling, in their rush to escape the blaze. Roog pressed his back to the wall and watched them, breathless. If he made his move now, would anyone notice him slipping into the courtyard? 

The smell of the smoke reached him, thick, acrid, rank. He took his chance. He dove into the exodus, wading upstream, using his hands and elbows to push the surging flow of humanity to either side of him. Their cries deafened him. A woman, hacking and smoke-blinded, fell against his chest. Her dark hair hung loose down the blanket draped over her shoulders.

“Ayda?” she howled, clutching the front of his robes.

A name? A Nagarist word? A lost child, a plea for help? Either way, Roog couldn’t do anything for her. He shook his head and eased her aside, pushing deeper into the throng, until he at last emerged into the courtyard. 

The smoke was thicker here, billowing black from windows on the first floor, from a shed at the back of the yard. The taste of ash lay thick on his tongue. He coughed, his eyes watering, and crouched. Dimly, through the haze, he saw a group of armoured men trying to subdue a screaming, rearing horse. They waved their arms, reaching for its halter, their hands sliding off its sweaty flank, but it reared again, kicking, and took off at a gallop. Roog leapt aside as it thundered past, pursued by the men. He should have helped them. But he had bigger things to worry about now.

_Where are you, Rahal?_

Bent double, he darted through a doorway in the wing opposite the fire. Lit only by torchlight, the corridor was crowded with bodies, too, some wrestling trunks and travel bags through the commotion, others corralling children. One woman sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking and crying. Roog almost tripped over her. How was he supposed to find Rahal in this mess?

He plunged through the halls, weaving around clots of people and glancing into darkened rooms, searching for the stairs to the dungeon. As he moved deeper into the castle, the crowds thinned. It grew quiet. He broke into a jog, turning down endless corridors, until at last he came across a narrow stairwell leading down into the darkness. He skidded to a stop and gazed into the abyss. It stank of mildew; even the smell of burning wood couldn’t mask it. The thought of Rahal living down there for days squeezed at his heart. 

A single torch burned at the head of the stairs; he grabbed it and took the steps two at a time, twisting sideways at the hips as the walls narrowed. 

“Rahal?” he bellowed as the staircase opened onto a passage lined with iron doors. It was cool down here, and damp, and quiet. His voice echoed in the stillness. “Where are you?”

A rustle and a wordless murmur came from the cell to his right. He went to the door and pounded on it, frantic. “Rahal?”

But the bewildered voice that responded spoke in Nagarist. Roog continued down the passage, calling Rahal’s name and rattling the other doors, but he was met with silence at every one of them. Finally, he came upon a cavernous room at the foot of the corridor. The heavy, metallic smell of blood hung in the air; in the circle of light shed by the torch, he saw it smeared across the stone floor, dried, in some places, a rusty, reddish brown. 

He gagged and almost dropped the torch. Had Rahal been in here? Was this his blood? If he kept going, would he find what he feared most? He swallowed hard and forced himself to take a step, and then another, until a wooden chair loomed out of the darkness. It lay on its side, one leg broken, and, like everything else he’d seen of the room, it was mottled with blood. But it was empty. No Rahal. A knife, its blade painted red, lay on the floor next to it.

He staggered back until his hands touched perspiring brick. He leaned against the wall, swimming in relief and defeat, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Rahal wasn’t down here. And that could mean only one of two things: that he’d been taken somewhere else, or was already—

_No. Don’t you give up. You can’t._

Even if Rahal was dead, he couldn’t rest until he saw the body for himself. He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve and retreated the way he’d come, squeezing up the stairs and back into the warm, smoky main floor. The roar of the flames was louder now, closer. There was a groan and a crack as masonry shifted, as the fire incinerated the beams that held the ceiling. Soon, the walls would topple, bringing the roof with it. He wondered, vaguely, if Isaara had managed to escape.

He bolted out the door opposite the stairs and back into the courtyard. The crush had thinned, but the smoke was thicker, the flames hotter, the desperation to escape more palpable. And as he paused to take it all in, to think, he saw, through the smothering veil, a figure chained to a wooden post. It hung there, naked, limp as a sack of dead fish, arms raised above the head, wrists rubbed raw by the shackles that cradled them. The head rested, lifeless, against the pole.

Roog’s heart leapt into his throat. “Rahal!”

But if Rahal heard him, he didn’t respond. He didn’t stir. His long, dark hair, matted and tangled, obscured his face. Even from this distance, Roog could see the criss-crossing lash wounds on his back, the bruises that dappled his ribs and arms and thighs, the broken, purple hand.

Roog ran to him.

He dropped to his knees and cradled Rahal’s head in his hand, easing him away from the pole. His oily hair was cool and slippery in Roog’s palm, but the scalp underneath was warm, much to Roog’s relief. He was still alive. “Rahal?” he murmured, shaking him gently. 

Rahal’s head fell back, and in the dancing light of the flames, Roog saw a mangled crater where his right eye should have been. With a yelp, he recoiled, almost releasing Rahal before he remembered himself. Of all the things he’d thought they might do to him, he’d never expected this. Shaking, he brushed Rahal’s hair away from his sooty face, taking in his split lip, the bruises on his cheeks, the deep gash on his forehead. How the hell could any human do this to another? And oh, gods, his fucking _eye_ —

“What are you doing here?”

Roog’s head snapped up. Nenet stood over them, sword in hand. Roog glanced first at the curving blade, then at the ring of keys at her belt. Did one of them match Rahal’s shackles? If he could only get his hands on them—

“Get up,” she hissed, motioning with her sword. 

Roog rose slowly, palms in front of him, aware, more than ever, of the sword hanging heavy at his hip. “He’s coming with me.”

“I think not,” Nenet said. 

“You really don’t want to fuck with me right now.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Besides, don’t you have bigger things to worry about?” Roog jerked his head at the flames consuming the northeast tower.

“He belongs to us,” she said, and lunged at him.

Roog sidestepped and drew his own sword, raising it defensively when she flew at him again. The steely clash of their blades rang loud, cutting through the screams, the crepitating flames, the shrieks of horses. Nenet bared her teeth, leaning into him, pushing him back; she was stronger than he’d expected. He kicked her in the knee, and with a roar of pain, she went down, her sword skittering away to land near Rahal’s motionless form.

Roog pointed the tip of his sword at her throat. “Give me the keys.”

She glared up at him, breathing hard. “Never.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he snapped. The tip of his sword pressed into the soft flesh of her neck, hard enough to draw a pinprick of blood. “After what you did to him, I’d be glad to.”

She smirked. “Go ahead and try.”

She was looking at something over his shoulder. He half-turned, just in time to dive aside as Izil’s sword came at him. Rolling, he slipped the knife out of his boot in one fluid motion and staggered to his knees. The two of them stood united against him, a barrier between him and Rahal. Embers danced on the wind, burning his eyes. He blinked at them wearily; he didn’t have time for this bullshit.

With furious speed, he pitched the knife at Izil. It struck him in the side, buried hilt-deep. He cried out, dropping his weapon to clutch at it, and Nenet threw herself, screaming, at Roog. He caught her around the waist, swung her, wrestled her to the ground, knocking her sword aside when it slipped from her hand. She screeched and tried to roll him underneath her, but he had the advantage of weight. With a jerk of his legs, he clambered on top of her and started to hammer his fists into her face. Her blood sprayed the front of his robes. Her screams turned to gurgles. At last, she lay still, her face lumpy and crimson like a split pomegranate.

He stared at her, bile rising in his throat, and he realized he was shaking. Her blood dripped from his clenched fists. Runes, had he killed her? With his bare hands? He’d killed before, during the war. But it had never been so vicious, so personal. His gaze shifted to her chest, seeking the tell-tale rise and fall of life. There was nothing.

The crack of timber snapped him out of it. He scrambled off Nenet, yanking the keys from her belt, and stood. When he turned, he found Izil laying on the ground nearby, arm outstretched, as if reaching for Roog. The knife was still in his side, but now he had a gaping wound in his skull, too. A white sliver of skull was showing. An old man, dressed in a priest’s brown robe, stood over him. He held a log in his hands, the end smeared with blood. His wide, staring eyes were locked on Izil’s corpse.

“Did you do that?” Roog demanded.

The priest’s gaze shifted to him, uncomprehending. It didn’t matter; Roog already had a good idea what had happened. He should have known the priests in Nagarea would be murderous, too. The only question was—why?

He returned to Rahal and quickly unlocked the shackles, holding him close as he sagged from the post. His skin was pale, clammy. His teeth chattered. Roog tried not to look at the pit where his eye had been. “I’m gonna get you out of here,” he murmured against Rahal’s ear. “I promise.”

He hoisted Rahal into his arms, mindful of the raw lash wounds on his back, and turned. The priest was still standing there, now in his underclothes. He’d taken off his brown robe and was wringing it in his hands, the flames blazing higher and hotter behind him. When he saw Roog looking, he offered him the robe.

“Why are you helping me?” Roog asked.

The priest didn’t respond. Instead, he spread the robe on the ground and motioned, impatiently, for Roog to lay Rahal on it. He saw no reason not to oblige. Together, they bundled him up, pulling part of the woollen fabric up like a hood and tucking his arms in close by his sides for warmth. Only his face peeked out, pale but for his wounds against the dark cloth. When Roog lifted him again, the priest gently placed his palm on Rahal’s forehead, his brown eyes soft. Maybe Rahal hadn’t been alone here after all.

“Thanks,” he said. 

The priest bowed his head. Behind them, a terrible crashing sound split the night, and with a groan, the tower that had taken the worst of the blaze began to buckle. More screams went up as people scrambled for the gates. For a moment, Roog stood frozen, watching the chaos, until the priest shoved him hard. Roog took off running, as fast as he could with Rahal in his arms, and plunged into the writhing mass of bodies. He couldn’t see the priest now, had no idea if he’d even followed. He just pushed forward, letting the crowd guide him, like a tide, through the gates, to safety.

As he raced into the night, headed for the tree where he’d left his horse tethered, the tower collapsed into the courtyard with an ear-splitting burst of bricks shattering on stone.

He kept running. He didn’t look back.

*

Isaara was waiting for him at the ruins, as she had promised. She sat in an ancient archway, her legs crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world like a girl meeting her lover for a clandestine date. When she saw him approaching, she rose to greet him.

For his part, Roog felt safe at last when he saw her. He’d ridden for what felt like hours, Rahal wedged in front of him in the saddle, delirious, his head tucked under Roog’s chin. His relief, his joy, at having Rahal with him had been fleeting; he’d spent much of the journey looking over his shoulder, certain that a cohort of Zaia’s men—maybe even Zaia himself—would soon appear on his tail. Isaara would know what to do, if it came to that.

He reined in his steed and climbed down, one steadying hand on Rahal’s shoulder, just as Isaara reached his side. Together, they pulled Rahal off the horse and laid him down on the blanket Isaara had had the foresight to bring.

Isaara peered into his face. “Oh, dear. Oh, my dear.” Her hand flew to Roog’s arm and squeezed. “The poor thing. The poor, dear thing. What have they done to him?”

Roog only shook his head, unable to reply. 

“Well, we shall do what we can for him, but he needs a doctor.” She pushed the robe back from Rahal’s face and tucked it behind his head. The moonlight threw his facial wounds into alarming relief. “Bring me my water skin, please, Roog. It is in my pack. Oh!” She snapped her fingers at him. “And a clean handkerchief.”

He brought the items to her and watched as she blotted the blood from Rahal’s lips, his cheeks, his forehead. She avoided his empty eye socket; like Roog, it seemed to make her uncomfortable. And, like Roog, she probably wasn’t sure what to do about it. 

“Roog,” she murmured, her hand stilling. She pushed back Rahal’s hair, revealing his blood-caked ear and neck. “They took more than his eye. Look.”

He bent closer and saw that the earlobe had been cut off. “Those fuckers—”

“Help me remove his robe. I want to see what else they have done to him.”

She began to pull at the garment, but Roog placed his hand on hers, stilling it. “He’s naked under there.”

She stared at him, then huffed a laugh. “Do you imagine I have never seen a naked man before?”

“No, but—”

She pushed his hand aside and jerked the robe open. Underneath, Rahal’s pale skin was so translucent Roog could see the blue, ropy veins in his shoulders and hips. “No, but you want his nakedness to be for you and you alone,” she snapped. “I understand. Now let me do my work.”

Chastised, Roog sat back on his heels and watched her in silence. She hadn’t been entirely off the mark, but she’d made him sound so selfish, so indecent. The fact was, he didn’t want anyone to see Rahal like this. Least of all himself. 

Isaara lifted Rahal’s shattered hand and examined it. It was misshapen, crusted in dried blood, the fingers stiff and unyielding. After a moment, she clucked and set it back down. “I cannot fix this. At this point, it may be beyond the skills of a doctor, too.”

“His back,” Roog said. 

“His back?”

“They lashed him.”

She sighed. “Lift him for me.”

Roog held Rahal in a sitting position, their chests resting against one another, while Isaara examined him. He buried his hand in Rahal’s hair, pressed his face into his neck, listened to his each and every shallow breath. Rahal’s heartbeat pulsed, strong and even, between them. The stink of sour vomit, pit sweat, and greasy hair clung to him—he stank, Roog thought, like life. Beautiful, imperfect life.

“I will wash his wounds,” Isaara said at last, looking up at Roog, “but that is all I can do. We will rest for a few hours, and in the morning, we will find him a doctor—in one of the cities, preferably, where no one will ask questions. But we must move away from the road. There is a forest a half-hour ride from here. That is where we will go.”

*

And they did.

While Isaara dozed in the shadow of an oak tree, Roog sat by Rahal, watching him dream. His foot jerked under the blanket, and then his head followed suit, tossing his hair over his face. Roog brushed it back. Underneath, Rahal’s bruise-mottled face was pinched in a frown. His lips parted and he groaned softly, tossing his head again. Roog took his good hand, stroked the soft skin with his thumb.

Rahal went still. His eye opened—slowly, with difficulty, as if it had been crusted shut. He blinked once and his gaze locked on Roog.

“Roog?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

Rahal licked his lips. “Am I dreaming again?”

“No. It’s really me.”

“You came.” A tear spilled down Rahal’s cheek. Runes, he’d been through so much. Roog reached out, brushing the tear away with his thumb. “I thought—”

“You thought?”

Rahal shook his head weakly. “Nothing. I’m so tired.” They were silent for a long time, staring at each other in the moonlight. Somewhere in the depths of the forest, an owl hooted. At last, Rahal closed his eye again. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Yeah.” Roog brought Rahal’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “I’ll stay.”


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I hate writing fight scenes. Hate it. That's why this chapter took three months to produce. Dear readers, please accept my apologies for taking so damn long to update! I appreciate your continued emotional investment in this story. <3

Rahal slept fitfully, whimpering and tossing in his sleep, but he didn’t wake again that night. Roog watched him, lost in his own dark thoughts, until Isaara rose. She offered to take his place so he could get some shut-eye, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come. He was too busy willing Rahal to live, too busy berating himself for being the cause of his pain. So they packed their things, lifted Rahal into Roog’s saddle, and set off for Isaara’s hometown under the waning moonlight.  
  
They stayed off the road, keeping eyes and ears open for signs of Zaia’s men. Roog was surprised no one had come looking for them yet. Despite the chaos at the castle, someone must have noticed Rahal’s absence, Nenet and Izil’s bodies…  
  
The memory of his fists, dripping red with Nenet’s blood, flashed into his mind. He pushed it away.  
  
“How is he?” Isaara asked, drawing her horse nearer to Roog.  
  
Roog glanced down at Rahal, who was wrapped in the blanket and nestled against him. He was shivering, twitching, muttering in his delirium. When Roog laid a hand against his forehead, he found the skin clammy and hot. “He’s got a fever. Is there somewhere safe to stop near here?”  
  
Isaara shook her head. “Zaia and his men will be searching for us along this road. When we reach the capital, it will be easier to lose them.”  
  
“That’s more than a day’s ride, Isaara!”  
  
“Nonetheless, it is too dangerous. We do not know which villages in these parts are loyal to Zaia. Do not risk our lives on an impulse.”  
  
Silently, Roog rested his cheek against Rahal’s head. There was nothing he wouldn’t risk for him—hell, he’d go down swinging on Rahal’s behalf—but Isaara had a point. They were supposed to be helping Rahal, not putting him in danger.  
  
So he did nothing, and as they rode, the sun appeared on the horizon in a burst of blood orange light. In the distance, he could see what he thought was a cluster of stone buildings—a village, maybe.  
  
“Isaara,” he said. When she glanced at him, he pointed.  
  
“Hmmm…” She squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. After a moment, she said, “Something seems strange. Where are all the people?”  
  
He looked again and saw that she was right. At this hour, the village should have been awake and bustling with people tending their crops and livestock, drawing water from the well, bringing laundry down from clotheslines. But it was silent. Eerily so.  
  
They slowed as they approached it, wary of a potential ambush. Closer now, Roog saw that the walls of the buildings were crumbling, the roofs long caved in, the bricks freckled with patches of bright green moss. A lopsided wheelbarrow outside one house was draped with spiderwebs and half buried in encroaching weeds. Whoever had lived here had left long ago, and with such urgency that they hadn’t bothered to take their possessions with them.  
  
“It’s a little creepy,” he said.  
  
Isaara shrugged. “It is possible they were driven out by a poor harvest or a plague. Such things are not uncommon in the countryside.”  
  
Roog raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. Those things weren’t common in Falena. It worried him a little that she could speak of plague and famine with such nonchalance.  
  
“We can rest here for a few minutes,” Isaara said as she reined in her horse next to the remains of a low boundary wall and began to rummage for the water skin that hung from her saddle. “How is he? Aware enough to eat?”  
  
Roog shook his head. Rahal still lolled against him, out cold. “I want to check on his wounds again now that the sun’s up. Can you help me get him down?”  
  
Isaara took a long drink from her water skin and nodded. Together, they managed to get Rahal off the horse and lay him on a blanket Roog had spread out on the grass. Rahal’s face was a sickly grey, his lips bloodless, in the morning light. His nose and cheeks, burnt by the sun, flaked with peeling skin. Isaara had tied a strip of linen cloth around his head, over his empty eye socket, and spots of blood had soaked through it as they rode. Roog took a deep breath and gingerly pulled the cloth away.  
  
He’d thought it was bad in the moonlight; this was worse. The pit where Rahal’s eye should have been was an angry, glistening red, the flesh at its edges shredded. It looked like a hole hastily dug by a nervous rodent. And around it bloomed violent purple bruises, climbing up his temple and into his hairline. Roog traced them gently with his thumb, swallowing his anger.  
  
Isaara squeezed his arm. “It is not infected.”  
  
“Not yet.”  
  
“Yes. We must treat it soon.” She sat back on her heels and stroked her chin, looking thoughtful. “If I could get my hands on some snapdragon or poppy…”  
  
“You don’t have any of that around here?”  
  
“Poppy, perhaps, if we are lucky enough to find it growing in the wild. But I have not seen any on our travels.”  
  
“I’ll go look for some.”  
  
“We do not have time—”  
  
“None of this will matter if this wound gets infected before we make it to the capital,” Roog growled. “We can spare a half hour, can’t we? If we don’t find anything by then, we’ll leave.”  
  
“You do not know this area.”  
  
“So? Neither do you.”  
  
“I have a map.”  
  
“You could give me the map.”  
  
She sighed and shook her head. “You do not know the dangers lurking in the wilderness.”  
  
“I’m a grown man, Isaara! I’ve slept in the woods, you know. All over Falena. I’m still here to talk about it.”  
  
“Roog,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.  
  
“You’re the one wasting our time.”  
  
“We have company, Roog.” She pointed over his shoulder, her mouth settling into a grim line. “Look.”  
  
Alarmed, Roog turned and saw that she was right. A cloud of dust billowed up from the road, still a good few miles away, and so thick that he couldn’t say what was in the middle of it. But he’d only ever seen such a thing caused by a contingent of fast-moving riders. It was Zaia. It had to be. And he’d soon be upon them.  
  
For one panicked moment, he entertained the thought of making a run for it, but if they did that, Zaia would see them—if he hadn’t seen them already—and Roog doubted he’d call off the chase for anything less than his own death. Besides, their horses were tired and neither Isaara nor Roog had had time to water them yet. There was no way they could out-run Zaia in this state. Hiding, making a stand—those were their only options now.  
  
He grabbed Rahal under the arms and lifted him off the ground. “Help me,” he said to Isaara. “We have to get him into the house behind you. Hurry!”  
  
She took him by the feet and they staggered to the ruined hovel with Rahal hanging between them. They set him down behind the wall facing the road, where he would be mostly safe from danger, and returned to move their horses to the rear of the building. Then Roog started tearing the rubble apart for something—anything—that could help them keep Zaia at bay. But he found only chipped pots, tarnished cutlery, an eyeless, mouldering doll.  
  
“What are you doing?” Isaara asked.  
  
“I can’t take on a group all by myself with nothing but my sword and knife.” Squatting, Roog wrenched open a cabinet and rifled through piles of dusty, yellowing linens. “We need projectiles. Something we can throw.”  
  
Isaara picked up a piece of broken brick. “What about this?”  
  
“We need something that’ll kill them.”  
  
“I will stun them, then you can stab them,” Isaara said.  
  
Roog rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’ll be effective.”  
  
“We can check the other houses. They may have more knives we can throw,” Isaara suggested. “But I must tell you my aim is not very good. I have not had much occasion to throw things at others. How is yours?”  
  
He’d never been good with long-ranged weapons, never mastered the bow and arrow the way Rahal had. Where Rahal had spent hours perfecting his aim in the archery range at Sauronix Castle, Roog had always preferred to use his swords and his brute strength, wrestling and sparring with his fellow recruits.  
  
But this was a matter of life or death. He had to at least try. So he darted into the house next door and tore it apart, too, keenly aware that they had only minutes until Zaia reached them. In a drawer, he found two wide-bladed hunting knives, but the edges were so dull he doubted they could even pierce butter.  
  
Better than nothing, he thought, and tucked them into his belt.  
  
“Roog!” Isaara’s voice came, sharply, from the building behind him. “I have found something you may find interesting.”  
  
He went to her and saw that she’d discovered a bow. It was a rudimentary flatbow, made of yew, unstrung with the cord still dangling from one end. Next to it, a leather quiver held five arrows.  
  
“I could kiss you,” he said, taking it from her. It had been years since he’d held a bow, let alone strung one, but it looked to be in good shape. “I’ll get this ready to go. Where’s Zaia?”  
  
Isaara popped her head over the wall, squinting into the distance. “He is close now. I think he has seen us.”  
  
“Shit. Get back to Rahal and keep an eye on him.” He braced the strung end of the bow against his boot and started to bend the supple limb. “And get your pile of rocks ready. We’re gonna need them.”  
  
She scurried off, and after fumbling for a few minutes with shaking hands, his heart thundering, blood roaring in his ears, Roog finally managed to slip the string into the notch at the tip of the bow. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and jogged back to the ruin where he’d left Rahal. He found Isaara crouched by his feet, peering over the wall, with a small pile of rocks beside her.  
  
“They have definitely seen us,” she reported. “I believe there are six of them—no. Seven.”  
  
Roog put his back to the cool stone wall and cautiously glanced over it. Just outside the village boundary, Zaia and his entourage had brought their horses to a halt and were in the midst of dismounting. His men, fully armed and armoured, swords and axes hanging heavily from their belts, fanned out around a gate hanging half off its hinges, waiting for Zaia’s orders. Roog studied them, looking for weak points, before his eyes flicked back to Zaia. His cheeks, his bald skull, and his robes were dusted with soot. A gaping red gash had opened his forehead. Seeing the state of him, Roog allowed himself a sardonic smile.  
  
Then their eyes met.  
  
“I should have known it was you,” Zaia bellowed, his eyes blazing under heavy brows. “You’ve taken something that belongs to me. I want it back!”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t think so, buddy,” Roog muttered. He fit an arrow onto the bowstring, let it rest against his thigh, and glanced at Isaara. “When you throw,” he murmured, “I’ll follow up with an arrow. You take the lead.”  
  
She nodded, took a deep breath, and popped up, pitching the brick at the group of armed men. At the same time, Roog took aim and let the arrow fly. It whistled through the air in a steep arc and plummeted uselessly to the ground, spearing the soil ten feet from where Zaia stood. His men looked at each other for a moment in stunned silence before they broke into laughter.  
  
Roog swore and ducked back under cover.  
  
“What are you doing?” Isaara hissed. She rummaged in her pile and pulled out another, larger, brick, offering it to him. “Perhaps we should trade. I can shoot better than that.”  
  
His face and neck went hot. “Give me a break, Isaara,” he growled. “It’s been a few years. I’ve got this.”  
  
“When I agreed to help you, I did not agree to die,” she said tersely. She jerked her head at Rahal, who lay, shivering and pale, under the wool blanket. “You have brought him this far. Do not fail him now. And do not fail me.”  
  
She wound up and threw her brick. This time, it struck a helmet with a hollow clank, and the poor bastard wearing it hollered, stumbling, disoriented by the steel reverberating in his ears. As he flailed, Roog fired another arrow. It found its mark in the man’s armpit, plunging through the narrow gap between his breastplate and pauldron. Blood spurted from the wound, between the man’s fingers as he clutched at it. Then he fell to the ground, in the midst of his comrades, and moved no more.  
  
“Yes! Well done,” Isaara said, ducking back behind the wall. Her face was flushed, her forehead beaded with sweat, her eyes shining with determination. “Now do it again.”  
  
Zaia’s men had sprung into action. Three of them vaulted over the wall, swords drawn, while the other two shouldered through the gate. Despite their armour, they were still swift on their feet, moving with the grace of men confident in their ability to kill. Roog drew a third arrow and held his breath as he took aim at the nearest adversary. When he released, the arrow caught the man through the throat, and he went down choking on his own blood.  
  
Next to him, Isaara was throwing bricks like one of Babbage’s machines, relentless and untiring, grunting with each swing of her arm. The barrage wasn’t doing much to harm Zaia’s men, but Roog had to hope it’d at least slow them down a little. They needed all the time they could get; the quiver held only two more arrows, and there were still four men advancing on them. Behind them, wildly gesticulating, Zaia screamed what must have been frustrated orders in the Nagarist tongue.  
  
To Roog’s right, one of them launched into a charge, sword raised. Swearing, he fumbled another arrow from the quiver onto the bowstring, but before he could raise it, before he could fire, the blade glanced off the stone, sparks showering, a mere inch from his face.  
  
He leapt back, heart in his throat. _Fuck. Too close._  
  
Wordlessly, the man stepped around the wall. If he thought Roog and Isaara were a threat, he didn’t show it. And why would he? He was fully armoured, wielding a sharpened sword. By contrast, Isaara and Roog’s flimsy woollen robes and feeble arsenal were laughable.  
  
With his fingers on the string, ready to draw, Roog raised the bow and pointed it at the Nagarist. “Another step and I’ll put an arrow through your face.”  
  
“He does not understand you,” Isaara said breathlessly from behind him. She huffed and launched another brick. “Whatever you do with him, please hurry. The others are upon us.”  
  
He risked a glance and saw two of them unsheathing their swords as they approached from Isaara’s left. The fourth was nowhere to be seen, and that put Roog on edge almost more than the fact they were outnumbered.  
  
_Whatever you do, you’d better do it quick._  
  
The goon in front of him lunged, slashing with his sword. Instinctively, Roog ducked under his leather-clad arm, seizing one of the knives from his belt with one hand and plunging it into the man’s wrist. He bellowed, his sword falling from his grasp, and Roog followed up by kicking his legs out from under him. His blade flashed again, and the man’s throat spilled blood.  
  
“Roog!” Isaara said from behind him, her voice verging on hysteria.  
  
He turned, found that the two who had been converging on her had entered the house. Without hesitating, Roog fired at one, spearing him in the groin, sending him to the ground screaming with a hand clasped between his legs. The other kept bearing down on Isaara. Though she swiped at him with a brick, he batted it aside like it was a child’s toy and knotted a fist in her hair, yanking her head down as he drove his knee up into her face. Soundlessly, she slipped to the ground.  
  
“Isaara!” Roog roared.  
  
The man turned on him, stepping over Isaara like she was debris in the grass. At such a short range, Roog realized, the bow would be useless to him. He dropped it and drew his own sword, assuming a defensive stance in front of Rahal, his every sense alert. The first of Zaia’s men had underestimated him, at the cost of their lives, but this one had seen the four Roog had already killed and wasn't likely to make the same mistake. For a minute, they just sized each other up, unmoving, as Roog tried not to think about how high the odds were stacked against him.  
  
His opponent struck first. Roog barely managed to sidestep as the blade whistled past his ear, barely had time to recover as the sword came at him again. He raised his own, the flat of the steel braced against his other hand, just in time to block the blow. And then he pushed back, shouldering all of his strength into it, bellowing with the effort. It was just enough to force the man off-balance. As he stumbled, Roog slid into a low stance, swinging his sword at the tops of his thighs.  
  
The blade cut into the leather, but not deep enough to break the skin.  
  
_Shit._  
  
His adversary’s fist hit him in the face so hard that he fell against the wall, his vision erupting into blackness. He felt a stabbing pain between his eyes, a warm, wet stickiness on his lips. The punch had broken his nose. He licked the blood away, blinking the dark spots from his sight, and ducked just as the fist hurtled in for a second blow. This time, it slammed into stone instead of his face, and as the man screamed something agonized in Nagarist, clutching his shattered hand, Roog aimed for the artery in his leg, slashing deep into the meat behind his knee.  
  
And as he fell, incapacitated, something struck Roog hard in the back of the head.  
  
He staggered, grabbing onto the wall for support, but before he could turn, strong hands grabbed him by the arms, pinned them behind his back, marched him out of the crumbling house—  
  
—and yanked him to a halt in front of Zaia.  
  
Damn. He’d forgotten about the last of Zaia’s men, who’d disappeared as soon as the fighting started. He must have taken the chaos as an opportunity to creep up, unseen, behind Roog’s back. He gave a grudging, useless jerk of his arm, but the man held him fast, tightened his grip.  
  
Zaia eyed him up and down, his lips curving in a satisfied smirk, then unsheathed the dagger from his belt and flicked the tip with his thumb. An almost lazy gesture. And though a bead of blood welled on the skin where the blade had pricked it, he didn’t even flinch. He only licked it away, his eyes never leaving Roog’s. The lack of anything resembling empathy in their pale grey depths made the fine hairs rise on the back of Roog’s neck. “Have you ever wondered how it feels to have a knife in your gut?”  
  
“Not really,” Roog said roughly.  
  
“I’ve done it to so many people that I no longer have to wonder.” Zaia turned the blade, gazing in childlike awe at the way the polished steel glinted in the light. “The flesh resists, at first, when you slip the blade inside. But then it surrenders. Accepts. As if it hungers for the pain.” He brought the tip of the knife to Roog’s belly. Even through the wool of his borrowed robe, Roog could feel its sharp bite. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”  
  
Roog said nothing. He hardly dared to breathe, what with the blade waiting to open him up, and besides, Zaia didn’t deserve the satisfaction of his fearful rebellion. He settled on a wordless glare instead.  
  
Zaia cocked his head, his gaze sliding past Roog to the crumbling wall that concealed Rahal. “As for your friends, I’ll enjoy killing them, too. I’d hoped to keep Rahal around a little longer. You should have heard how he screamed when I took out his eye. I was looking forward to taking the other. But after all this, he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”  
  
Anger rose in him like bile. Anger at Zaia, for what he’d done to Rahal, for talking about it like it was a game. Anger at himself, for letting it happen. And now he was failing Rahal again.  
  
Underneath it, half drowned by his fury, buried deep by his years of military training, was the acidic gnaw of panic in his gut. No one was coming to save him. Not Isaara, laying stunned behind the wall of the ruined house; not Rahal, who teetered on the line between life and death. Not anyone else he knew, all of them hundreds of miles away in Falena. He was alone.  
  
But as with everything, he cloaked it in bravado. “Lay another hand on him and I’ll—”  
  
“You’ll what? Kill me?” Zaia chuckled and gestured with his free hand at the knife he held to Roog’s gut. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be making threats.”  
  
_Do something._  
  
Roog swallowed hard, willing his heartbeat to slow, and ran through the situation in his head. Two on one. Goon at his back. Zaia’s blade at his front. His only protection against death, a wool robe and the knife tucked in his boot.  
  
But maybe that was all he needed. He’d already taken down five with little more than two blunted blades and a dim recollection of his archery training. What was two more? If he could just piss Zaia off enough…  
  
“Quit yammering and get on with it, then,” Roog growled.  
  
Zaia smirked. “Now, where would be the fun in that?”  
  
“You’re a sick fuck,” Roog said. “Great at torturing. Not so great at killing.”  
  
“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m very good at killing.”  
  
“Except when it comes to Rahal. And Isaara. And me.” Roog gestured with his head at the corpses he’d left strewn across the village. “Your men are fucking incompetent, too.”  
  
“They were unworthy,” Zaia said with a shrug.  
  
Roog’s forced a sardonic smile. “And what about Nenet?”  
  
Zaia stilled. A spark flashed in his slate grey eyes, a spark of something that might have been sorrow for his lost cousin. “Nenet?” he said softly.  
  
“Yeah.” Roog licked his lips. The memory of Nenet’s sightless eyes swimming in the shattered bones of her face still haunted him, but he couldn’t let Zaia know that. He forged on. “I killed her. I beat her face in with my bare hands, until it was nothing but pulp. It was easy. Like swatting a fly.”  
  
“Shut up,” Zaia hissed. “Nenet would never—”  
  
“Would never what? Lose to a Falenan?” Roog taunted. “Well, she did. She was weak.”  
  
“Shut up!” Zaia screamed. He drew the blade back, gathering the force to bury it as fast and deep as possible, and thrust it at Roog—  
  
_Now!_  
  
—and as he did, Roog twisted in the arms that held him, jerking his hips to the right. The blade went not into the goon behind him, as he’d hoped, but into the heavy cloth of his robe. Stunned, Zaia tried to pull it out again, but one end of the cross guard had tangled in the wool, and Roog used the man holding him as leverage, bringing both legs up to kick Zaia hard in the gut.  
  
As Zaia stumbled, Roog’s weight broke the man’s hold on him. He rolled, tore the blade from his robe, and in one fluid motion, without even thinking, he jammed it into the man’s neck.  
  
That left only Zaia.  
  
Roog turned to him. Without his knife, without his men, he looked brittle, reedy, exposed, bent double and winded, clutching his side. Although he wore his fatigue as surely as the robe cinched around his waist, Roog knew he wouldn’t go down without a fight. In the past twenty-four hours, he’d lost his cousin, his castle, his prized Falenan prisoner. His eyes smouldered in his gaunt face; he probably hated Roog as much as Roog hated him.  
  
“You’d kill an unarmed man?” he said finally, breathless.  
  
Roog shrugged. “It’s not really my style, but I’ll make an exception for you.”  
  
“Barbarians,” Zaia said, lip curling. “All of you.”  
  
Roog barked a laugh. “You arrest my friend, torture him, chase us down with a pack of armed men just so you can kill us… and we’re the barbarians? You’re kidding.” Although there was nothing funny about it. Nothing at all.  
  
As they sized each other up, Zaia slipped into a defensive stance, his hands coming up to guard his chest and face. His fists were the only weapons he had left now — at least, the only weapons Roog could see. Whether or not Zaia could use them effectively, he had no idea; he knew very little about the man, when it came right down to it.  
  
Then Zaia rushed him.  
  
He was faster than Roog had expected. His elbow struck Roog in the chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, to throw him on his back in the grass. As he lay there, panting, Zaia came at him again, his fist cocked for a downward blow. Grunting, Roog rolled out of the way just in time, clambered to his feet, fumbled at his ankle for the hilt of his knife. When he found it, he drew it, his eyes never leaving Zaia’s face.  
  
“Do you really think that’s going to help you?” Zaia asked. He took a step to his left, then another, as if to circle behind Roog. But Roog kept stride with him, circling too, holding the knife between them. “I’ve killed better armed men than you, bigger men, with my bare hands.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, if you’re so damn strong, get over here and prove it.”  
  
Zaia moved so fast, Roog almost didn’t see the foot before it hit him in the jaw. It sent him to his hands and knees, ears ringing, vision swimming, but he had enough presence of mind to start crawling. He made it a few feet before Zaia’s boot took him in the ribs, jolting him onto his side. Pain clutched at his lungs; he tried to draw a breath, but could only gasp helplessly.  
  
“That’s the problem with you Cavalrymen.” Zaia rolled him fully onto his back and knelt, knees on either side of Roog. Sweat dripped from his nose, from his chin, landed on the front of Roog’s robe. “You rely so much on your strength, your fancy weapons and armour.” He punched Roog in the face, peeled the knife from his clenched hand. “You always underestimate speed. You’ve always looked down on us.” Hands around the hilt of the knife, he raised it above Roog, the point aimed down. “And now, you die.”  
  
He plunged the knife at Roog. Desperately, Roog caught his wrists, the knifepoint just inches from his throat. For a handful of agonizing seconds, they remained locked like that, both shaking with exertion, Zaia’s face twisted with hate, Roog gritting his teeth with the effort. Between them, the knife hovered. Roog’s muscles burned. His eyes strung. He was so gods-damned tired. Zaia’s wrists slipped in his sweaty grasp like a freshly-caught fish.  
  
The knife began to descend.  
  
_No. No. Not like this, damn you!_  
  
He couldn’t let Zaia finish what he’d started with Rahal. Couldn’t fail Isaara, when she’d risked her life to help them both. Couldn’t die here, without telling Rahal—  
  
Screaming, Roog gathered the last of his strength, forced Zaia’s arms apart, forced the knife away. A bucking twist of his hips dumped Zaia on the ground next to him. The blade fell harmlessly in the grass between them; Roog scrambled for it, hardly thinking, his body reacting on reckless instinct now.  
  
His fingers closed around the hilt, as, in the periphery of his vision, he saw Zaia reaching for him. Rage flared hot behind his eyes, and he turned, driving the blade into Zaia’s chest. The Nagarist went stiff, choking, his hand on Roog’s shoulder, disbelieving eyes going wide. As if he hadn’t considered the possibility that this confrontation would end with his death.  
  
“Looks like strength wins again,” Roog said coldly. He twisted the blade, pulled it out, thrust it in again. A long, low whine left Zaia’s lips, and his hand slid down Roog’s arm, clutched at Roog’s own, tried to push it away. “Remember when I said killing wasn’t really my style? Well, I gotta say, killing you is pretty fucking satisfying.”  
  
Zaia slipped to the ground lifelessly, his glassy eyes gazing forever at the cloudless sky. Breathing hard, Roog stared at the corpse, stared at the blood that glistened down the front of Zaia’s robe. His hands felt sticky and wet. He looked at them, grimacing at the red that slicked them, then wiped them on his clothes.  
  
He’d lied, of course. There was no joy in killing Zaia. Only a relief. An emptiness. Disgust.  
  
_You had to do it. For Rahal._  
  
He forced himself to his feet and staggered back to the ruined house. He went to Rahal first. Pale and still, he lay where Roog had left him before the fight, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he still lived. He touched his fingers to Rahal’s fever-hot cheek before moving on to Isaara, who was sprawled on her front just a few feet away.  
  
He shook her shoulder gently, and she stirred, blinking up at him like an owl coming out of hibernation. Dried blood crusted her nostrils, lips, and chin, had clotted in the nasty gouge that split the bridge of her nose. “You okay?” he asked.  
  
“I think so…” She sat up slowly, grimacing, and brought a hand to her temple. “Except for the headache. And this.” The hand moved to her nose, grazed over the blood. She winced and drew it back. “Is it broken?”  
  
“Yeah. ‘Fraid so.” He pointed to his own face. “But so’s mine. Give me a sec and I’ll get us all cleaned up.”  
  
He jogged over to where they’d left their horses tethered and retrieved the water skin from Isaara’s saddle, then went back to her. As he rounded the corner, Isaara sat up suddenly, her eyes going wide in alarm as she pointed at his side. “You are bleeding!”  
  
Roog looked down. A dark wet spot had begun to spread on the robe where Zaia’s blade had pierced it. He parted the torn fabric, exposing a shallow gash across his ribs. He hadn’t noticed how much it stung until now. “He tried to stab me. Guess I didn’t get away completely unscathed.”  
  
She looked at the corpses lying around them. “Did you kill them all?”  
  
“Yeah.” He tore a strip of fabric from the hem of her head scarf and doused it with water from the skin. He added, softly, “All of them. Zaia too.”  
  
He began to dab at the blood crusting her lip, but she batted his hand away, tutting, and reached for the cloth. “Never mind that, Roog. You have done enough here. Let me clean your wounds.”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, holding the cloth out of her grasp. “It’s just a scratch. Let me take care of you for once, will ya?”  
  
Isaara glanced at Rahal. “Very well. But then we must go. I am worried about him.”  
  
“So am I,” Roog said, wringing out the cloth. “So am I.”


	10. Ten

Rahal woke in stages.  
  
The voices came first, a gentle murmur that cut through the darkness, though he couldn’t make out the words. When he tried to open his eyes, he found them sealed shut; his head felt heavy, his face burned, his hand throbbed; his arms and legs were stiff; there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hurt. He groaned, and the murmur stopped. A door slammed. Soft footsteps approached.  
  
“Rahal?” A woman’s voice, from somewhere very close to his left. A warm voice with a light Nagarist lilt. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Rahal licked his lips, his tongue passing over coppery scabs and sharp flecks of dry skin. When he spoke, his voice cracked, scraping his parched throat. “Where am I?”  
  
“You are safe.” Her hand touched his shoulder lightly and lingered there. “You are in Nagarea, in a small village just off the southern coast. My name is Isaara. This is my home; you are in my bed. I am a friend of Roog’s.”  
  
“Roog?” Rahal said, voice rough, his heart clenching. A vague memory surfaced of Roog leaning over him in the moonlight. But he’d thought it was a dream. “Where—”  
  
“You have been through quite an ordeal,” she went on. There came the rustle of sheets as she tucked the covers more snugly around him. Then the mattress dipped, and something warm and firm leaned against his hip. She must have sat down next to him. “I do hate to ask, but… how much do you remember?”  
  
There were only glimmers, only shards of remembered pain that made no chronological sense in his memory. There was Izil crushing his hand under his heel. Zaia’s scowling face. The sting of the lash splitting his back open. The long, dark voyage from Sol-Falena to Lelcar, locked in the belly of a fishing vessel. A dank cell that reeked of piss and blood and death.  
  
The rest was dim, clouded, nebulous, like trying to catch a handful of mist.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said at last, shaking his head, wincing at the pain that speared his face. “Just pieces. Nothing specific.”  
  
Her hand took his. The skin was soft and wrinkled, though her grip was firm. “There is something I must tell you. I wish I did not have to. But it is better that you hear it before you see it for yourself.”  
  
His heart leapt, began to pound. He racked his brain, desperate to recall what Zaia had done to him that could be more horrible than the beatings and the lashings. But there was nothing. Just a blank, black chasm where the memory should have been. “What?”  
  
She was silent for a minute before she spoke again. “Will you open your eyes for me?”  
  
They were crusted shut, as though he’d been crying in his sleep. But slowly, he managed to get one open. He blinked at the darkened room, taking in the rough log walls, the green curtains, the single candle flickering on the bedside table. Finally, he focused on the woman sitting next to him. Her hair was covered with a white scarf, but a few wayward grey tendrils curled around her sun-browned cheeks. When her gaze met his, she smiled. She had a kind face, despite a broken nose and bruises under her eyes.  
  
“It is good to have you with us,” she said. She poured him a glass of water from a pitcher next to the bed and handed it to him. When he’d drained it, she took it back and set it on the floor. “For awhile, we were worried you would not make it.”  
  
He realized, then, what was wrong with his face. One eye had moved to look at her, but where the other should have been, there was nothing. Just an emptiness. A hole. A void that Zaia’s knife had scraped clean.  
  
It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Numbly, without thinking, he raised a hand to touch the socket, to feel for himself that he was no longer beautiful. But Isaara caught the hand before it reached his face, placed it back on the blanket, covered it with her own. “My eye,” he whispered.  
  
“Yes. I am sorry,” Isaara said.  
  
“What else?” Rahal licked his lips. He’d taken note of the heavily-bandaged hand, swaddled flat against a wooden splint, and the pulsing auras of pain that riddled the rest of his body. But with the blanket tucked around his chest, hiding the full inventory of wounds from his view, he couldn’t say for sure what had caused them. “What else did they do to me?”  
  
Isaara shook her head. “You must rest. Surely we can discuss this another—”  
  
“No.” Rahal swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to stay ignorant of his injuries, to pretend his body was still whole. But the other part, the part that made his gut lurch with terror, needed Isaara to prepare him, to tell him what he’d see when he looked in the mirror for the first time. “I want to know. Tell me everything.”  
  
For a moment, Isaara gazed at him unspeaking, her warm brown eyes studying his face. Then she shook her head again and said, “I do not know where to begin. There is hardly a part of you Zaia did not abuse.”  
  
“Start at the top.”  
  
Isaara touched her earlobe. “Here. This is where it begins. Zaia took the meat of your ear.”  
  
Rahal reached up to feel it for himself. As she’d said, the earlobe was gone; instead of soft flesh, his fingers met stiff cartilage wrapped in a crust of blood. “Go on.”  
  
“Your eye, as you know.” Isaara touched her cheekbone, drew her fingers up her temple and into her hair, then back down her cheek to hover at her lips. “Bruises. Cuts. This side of your face is swollen and purple. There is also the sunburn.” At this, her mouth tugged into a faint smile. “On your nose, and your shoulders, your chest, your back. But those will heal, and I imagine the freckles will look comely once the burn fades.  
  
“The rest will not heal so easily,” she went on, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He lashed you very badly. Do you remember that?”  
  
“Yes.” He remembered all too well how he’d passed out, naked and chained to the post in Zaia’s courtyard. How the lash had split his skin open again and again, until it seemed there was hardly any flesh left to scourge.  
  
“I cleaned and bound the wounds as best I could,” she said. “But the scarring will be severe. I am sorry.” After a moment’s silence, she slid her hand down to settle warmly on his chest, just to the left of his heart. “Do you remember this wound?”  
  
He could only draw a blank. Down in Zaia’s dungeon, between the moments of lucidity, there had been spans of time he couldn’t account for, spans of time that left him grappling with fresh, invisible pains when he inevitably came back to himself. Then, those insensate hours had been a mercy. Now, they made confronting the torture all the harder, all the more raw.  
  
“I could not figure out what it was at first,” she said. Her thin lips screwed into a grimace, and she looked away from Rahal. “But Roog immediately knew. A brand. A burn. They heated steel and put it to your flesh. You have another on the inside of your right thigh. I had to cut away the blisters and dead skin to stop the infection.”  
  
“I’m glad I don’t remember that,” Rahal said softly. Her words alone had brought bile, sour and choking, to the base of his throat.  
  
“Are you sure you want me to continue?” When he nodded, she said, “There are more bruises. There is your broken hand. And then there are your feet — they are cut up worse than anything I have ever seen. Neither Roog nor I could determine what caused  such wounds.”  
  
But Rahal knew. His forced barefoot march along Nagarea’s pebble-strewn, heat-blasted roads was to blame. “When we left the capital, Zaia tethered me to the back of his horse and made me walk to his fortress.”  
  
Isaara’s eyes widened. “All the way?”  
  
“Yes. All the way.”  
  
“He was a monster,” Isaara said in disgust.  
  
“Was?” Rahal echoed.  
  
“Yes. He is dead.” Isaara rose and went to the window, parting the curtains and looking out. Washed in the flickering yellow light of the candle, her reflected face looked tired, drawn, carved from stone. “After Roog pulled you from the fort, Zaia pursued us with a small contingent of men. We could not outrun them. Roog killed them all.”  
  
Rahal went quiet. He had fought at Roog’s side during the civil war — the first real violence either of them had seen outside the sparring ring — and most of their enemies had quailed, had fled, before the force of the Dragon Cavalry. And on those rare occasions their adversaries had refused to back down, it had been more shoving match than massacre, more bumps and bruises than spurting blood. That Roog had killed so many of Zaia’s men with his bare hands, without the help of his brothers-at-arms, was difficult to believe.  
  
“He saved us both,” Isaara said softly, as if she’d read the doubt in his mind and judged him for it. “He is a good man. Too good. He torments himself with the blood on his hands.”  
  
“But it was in self-defence,” Rahal said.  
  
Isaara smiled sadly. “Yes. And so I have told him countless times, but he does not listen.” She nodded at the fathomless night beyond the window. “These past days, he has done nothing but split wood in my yard. And he hardly speaks, except to ask after you.”  
  
“I want to see him,” Rahal said.  
  
“He will not come,” Isaara said, shaking her head. “I pleaded with him to stay by your side. I told him his face was the first thing you would want to see when you woke. But he refused.”  
  
The breath went from him, as if a stone had been laid over his lungs. He should have known Roog wouldn’t want to see him, that he’d only rescued Rahal out of some grudging sense of duty. “Then he’s still angry with me,” he said dully.  
  
“Oh, no,” she said, seeing the anguish on his face. “Oh, no, you must not think that. He cares for you. His struggle is with himself. With his soul.”  
  
Rahal said nothing, only stared, exhausted, at the bedspread. He no longer wanted to talk, to think. He wanted to sleep, to pretend this had never happened, that he wasn’t lying in a stranger’s bed in Nagarea with half his face gouged out. He felt Isaara watching him, but refused to meet her eye. At last, she sighed and moved from the window to the door.  
  
“I am just in the next room, if you need anything,” she said, her hand on the knob. “I will entreat Roog to come see you. But I can promise nothing. Rest now, and know you are safe.”

 

*

  
But Roog did not come. Not that night, not the next morning, nor the night after that. On the third day, as the hours passed, Rahal lay on his pillow, too weak to move, just listening to the sounds of life around him. The clatter of a ladle in a cast-iron pot. The steady creak of floorboards underfoot. Isaara’s soothing murmur, the answering rumble of Roog’s voice, both muffled by the wall that stood between them and Rahal. Then the rhythmic thunk of an axe striking wood out in the yard, over and over. It went on all afternoon.  
  
Isaara checked in on him a few times, but they exchanged only pleasantries as she examined his wounds and changed his dressings. She was busy, she said, with her chores. She had no time to sit with him today.  
  
You make her uncomfortable, said the voice in his head. Roog told her everything. About Craig. About how you ended up here in the first place. They must think you’re such a fool.  
  
He turned his face into the pillow, closed his eye against the tears, smothered the thoughts.  
  
And he dozed. He dreamt of Roog standing in the doorway, axe in hand, his face shadowed, unmoving. The whites of his eyes glowed like unsheathed steel in the moonlight spilling through the window. Rahal tried to speak. But the words caught in his throat, wouldn’t come. So he watched in mute terror instead as Roog stepped toward the bed, his movements inhuman, mechanical, until he was standing over Rahal. They stared at each other for long, silent, agonizing seconds. And then Roog raised the axe—  
  
He started awake, gasping, his hands fisting the sheet, to find the room flooded with sunlight. Isaara stood next to him, a jar of ointment and fresh bandages cradled in her hands. She raised an eyebrow at him as he blinked, bewildered, at the room, at her.  
  
“A nightmare?” she asked.  
  
He nodded, shifting himself into a sitting position against the pillows.  
  
“I do not blame you, after all you have been through. I will make you some tea after I am done here. It will help you sleep better.” She set the ointment and bandages on the table beside the bed. “I have come to dress your feet. May I?” she said, gesturing to the bedspread.  
  
He nodded again, and she pulled the covers down to the foot of the bed, exposing the long white nightshirt they’d dressed him in, his pale legs, his thickly swaddled feet. Isaara sat, pulled one of them into her lap, and began to unravel the dressings.  
  
“What did you dream about?” she asked.  
  
“I—I don’t remember,” he lied.  
  
She looked at him, pursing her lips, and began to unwrap the other foot. “It must have been frightening. You were crying out in your sleep.”  
  
“Did I say anything?”  
  
“No.” She dropped the blood-stained bandages on the floor and gestured at the jar of ointment on the table. “Pass me that, please.”  
  
He handed it to her, then let his head fall back against the headboard as she began to rub the ointment into one of his broken, abused feet. The silence stretched on for minutes as she worked, her strong thumbs stroking the arch from heel to ball, kneading deep into the tendons. More than once, Rahal had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.  
  
The mellow silence soon slipped to awkward. This woman had been Roog’s companion over the past week, had risked her life to save him. It was clear that Roog saw her as a mother figure, that in return, she saw him as a son. But Rahal had no idea what to say to her. A thank-you seemed an insufficient response to what she had done for him, for the danger she’d faced to bring him back safely. And then there was the matter of what Roog had told her about him.  
  
Finally, without looking up at him, she said,  “He cares for you a great deal.”  
  
Rahal closed his eye. “I wonder…”  
  
“You must not wonder. He is embarrassed.” Isaara eased the foot back onto the bed and drew the other into her lap. “Perhaps even ashamed. He feels responsible for what happened to you.”  
  
Rahal glanced at the open window. The view beyond was obscured by billowing curtains, but Rahal could hear the rhythmic, repetitive thud of an axe on wood, and knew Roog was out there again, splitting logs for Isaara’s fire. Only thirty feet from where he lay, so close it would be nothing to go out there and make him talk. But Rahal was still too weak to leave the bed.  
  
“He spoke of you often,” Isaara went on. Her gaze had followed his to the window, and now she looked at it pensively, as if contemplating the man labouring in the yard beyond. “He could think of nothing but you. He made me wish I had such a love in my own life.”  
  
“We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember,” Rahal said carefully. His throat felt suddenly tight, as if seized by an invisible hand.  
  
Isaara went still. She was looking at him now, her eyes warm and amused. “You know that is not what I mean.”  
  
Rahal shook his head. “There’s a woman waiting for him back in Falena.”  
  
“A woman?” Isaara raised her eyebrows. “I do not believe he ever mentioned her.”  
  
“I find that difficult to believe. He’s been in love with her for the better part of the past year.”  
  
Isaara dipped her fingers into the jar of ointment and smeared it between her hands, warming it before she applied it to his foot. “What is her name?”  
  
“Miakis.”  
  
“Miakis.” She gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment before slathering the ointment onto his foot. “That is an unusual name. A name I would have remembered. He never spoke of her.”  
  
Rahal watched her for a moment, studying the firm set of her jaw, the deep lines cording her face. There was a strength to her, a vigour, despite her advanced years. “Why did you help him?”  
  
Isaara shrugged. “At first, I was merely curious. He refused to tell me what he was doing on the path to Nagarea. So I shared my rum with him as we sat talking by the fire, and it loosened his lips.”  
  
“You pried the truth out of him with booze?” Somehow, Rahal wasn’t surprised. Roog’s judgement was questionable at the best of times, and he’d never been one to turn down a free drink. It was a regrettable combination.  
  
“Yes,” Isaara said, laughing. “I am not proud of it. But the more he spoke, the more I realized how much you meant to him. He said—” She paused, frowning, and bit her lip. “Perhaps it is not my place to say.”  
  
Rahal had been hanging on her every word, desperate, he realized, starved for even a whisper of Roog’s feelings for him. “Tell me, please. He won’t.”  
  
“He said you are the only one who has seen him at his worst, yet never faltered in your friendship,” she said. “He said he would not know what to do—how to live—if anything happened to you.”  
  
“Is that all?” He cringed inwardly at his own greed, after the words had left his mouth.  
  
“There were other things. Things I will let him tell you for himself. But he told stories of your friendship. He said you grew up together, that you were always at odds as children.” Balancing his foot between her thighs, she wiped her hands on her apron and took up the length of fresh bandages. “He said your rivalry turned to friendship after a field exam, and that you have been inseparable ever since.”  
  
Rahal nodded, smiling at the memory. It was still fresh, still vivid, despite all the years wedged between those days and the present. “Our commander paired us together because we were always fighting. He figured we’d get it out of our system if we were forced to work together.”  
  
“And he was right.”  
  
“In the end, yes, though we almost came to blows.” Rahal laughed softly. “I was more impulsive back then. I’d had enough of him by the time we got to the campsite, so I threw his clothes in the river out of spite. Roog was so angry he snapped the tentpoles. We had to make new ones out of sticks.”  
  
Isaara smiled as she wrapped his foot. “And you? What do you feel for him?”  
  
“He’s my best friend,” Rahal said.  
  
“Is that all?”  
  
Rahal glanced again at the window, almost unconsciously, saying nothing. How could he tell Isaara what he’d never been able to say to Roog? What he’d refused, for years, to admit to himself? What he’d drowned in flings with anyone who would have him, Craig included?  
  
But Isaara already knew. She patted his freshly-bandaged foot and put it back on the bed, then rose and pulled the blankets over him. “Do not worry. I will not tell him. I would never rob you of that moment.”  
  
Quietly, he watched her pour him a glass of water and set it on the table, within easy reach of the bed.  
  
And then she left him alone again with his thoughts, with his regrets.

  
*

  
On the morning of the fourth day, he could take it no more. He’d woken to the sound of their voices in the other room, the sound of Roog’s heavy footsteps on the floorboards, and instead of self-pity, he felt the first spark of anger.  
  
He swung his legs out of bed and, with his hands on the chair, hauled himself upright. The layers upon layers of bandages Isaara had wrapped around his feet acted as a cushion for his skin, but still they stung when he put his full weight on them. Isaara had left a shawl draped over the back of the chair; Rahal grabbed it, put it around his shoulders, and took the first hesitant step toward the door.  
  
And then another.  
  
And another.  
  
Until he staggered into the kitchen, winded, leaning heavily against the wall.  
  
They both went silent when they saw him. Roog stood by the window, stripped to the waist and slicked with sweat, his bald scalp, usually meticulously shaved, now dark with a week’s growth of hair. The coarse fibres of his beard clung to his cheeks like soot. A deep, bloody groove notched the bridge of his nose, evidence that, as with Isaara’s, it had been broken.  
  
His eyes widened when they met Rahal’s, then flitted away, looking instead into the glass of water he held in his hand.  
  
“I’ve been waiting for you to come see me,” Rahal said, licking his dry lips. He glanced at Isaara, then back at Roog. “But you never did. So I thought I’d come to you.”  
  
Isaara unlaced her apron and set it on the counter. “I will leave you alone to talk.”  
  
As she moved to the door, Roog looked up sharply. “Isaara—”  
  
“You are a grown man,” she said. “You cannot avoid difficult conversations, Roog. I will be outside hanging the laundry.”  
  
And then she was out the door. The kitchen was quiet in her wake, preternaturally still, like an electric calm before the first crack of thunder. Transfixed, Rahal watched a bead of sweat roll down Roog’s golden chest, watched it trace the swell of his muscles and drip onto the robe tied low around his hips. With effort, he dragged his gaze away, fixing it instead on the floor.  
  
Roog set the glass down and sighed, breaking the silence. “How are you?”  
  
“I’ve been better.” Rahal hobbled to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat in it heavily, wincing as his bandaged, still-raw flesh brushed against the backrest. “And you?”  
  
Roog grunted. “About the same.”  
  
“I wanted to thank you.” He picked at a string that dangled from the hem of his sleeve, pulled it free, flicked it away. Gods, why was he so nervous? “You know. For coming to get me.”  
  
Roog laughed bitterly, waving a hand. “No need for thanks. I was just cleaning up the mess I made.”  
  
“Oh.” For some reason, that hurt more than anything Zaia had done to him.  
  
“Shit, Rahal, that came out all wrong.” Roog huffed out a breath and placed both hands on the edge of the counter, bracing himself. “This is all my fault. I never should’ve let them bring you to Sol-Falena, never should’ve let you put on that gods-damned dress and—”  
  
“Roog.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” For the first time since they’d been reunited, Roog met his gaze. He studied Rahal for a minute before his face crumpled and he looked away again, shaking his head. “Your eye, man. Your fucking eye.”  
  
Rahal brought his good hand up and placed it over the thick blindfold that covered the hollow in his face. He felt the hard ridge of bone that marked the lip of the socket—and beyond it, that terrible emptiness where his sight had been. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
Roog shook his head again. “I never should’ve let you come to Sol-Falena.”  
  
“I chose to come.”  
  
“Why? The last time we saw each other, I called you a—” Roog caught himself, biting his lip. “You know what I called you.”  
  
A whore. He remembered. The words still stung.  
  
“I wanted to help,” Rahal said. He placed his hand on the table, the broken one that Isaara had so carefully splinted, and licked his lips, choosing his next words carefully. “I had to prove to you that I still deserved to be Commander.”  
  
With Roog’s back turned, Rahal couldn’t see his face, but he could read his body language well enough. He’d gone still, rigid, much too quiet. Immediately, Rahal regretted what he’d said. There was no need to pile on more guilt when Roog was already carrying so much of it.  
  
“Now it’s my turn to apologize,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
  
“No, it’s fine. I deserved that.”  
  
“Maybe we should talk about it,” Rahal said.  
  
“What do you want me to say?” Roog laughed, entirely without humour. “I overreacted. I treated you like shit. They tortured you because of me. I don’t think any apology can make up for that.”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rahal repeated. He studied Roog in the ensuing silence, his eyes tracing the strong line of his nose, the defiant cut of his jaw, the arms crossed tight across his chest. “If I hadn’t had that tryst with Craig, you—”  
  
“Don’t you dare go blaming yourself,” Roog snapped. For the first time that day, he looked at Rahal, really looked, his eyes shining in the sunlight that streamed through the window, eyes that were furious, anguished, fiercely tender. “You deserve to be Commander. Everyone knows it. I’ve always known it. I was kidding myself when I said you didn’t.”  
  
“Then why—”  
  
Roog turned away, snatched the cast-iron kettle off the stove, and started furiously wiping the inside of it with a rag. “Did you love him?” he asked, voice harsh.  
  
Rahal let out a long sigh, sagging back in the chair, and rubbed his forehead with his good hand. “Who? Craig?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“No, Roog. I didn’t love him.”  
  
“But you slept with him.”  
  
Rahal shook his head, exasperation pricking at his exhaustion. “There’s a big difference between wanting someone and loving them.”  
  
“That goes both ways. You can love someone without wanting them,” Roog said, slamming the kettle down on the countertop.  
  
“Why are we fighting?” Rahal demanded. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”  
  
“Fuck. Yes. Of course I am.”  
  
Rahal’s fingertips were tingling, his breath coming fast and hard. He hadn’t expected their reunion to be like this. He hadn’t expected Roog to be so distant, so angry, so hostile. He’d wanted Roog to forgive him, to put his arms around him, to make him feel safe for the first time in weeks.  
  
Instead, they were sitting on opposite ends of a Nagarist kitchen, the invisible wall between them still adamantine. The ordeal of the past week had done nothing to bring it down.  
  
Rahal grabbed the edge of the table and heaved himself to his feet. He couldn’t sit there for another minute. He was too heartsick. “I’m going back to bed,” he said softly. “Thank you again.”  
  
He felt Roog’s eyes on him, boring holes into his back, as he limped the few steps to the bedroom, as he closed the door between them.

  
*

  
He slept restlessly for a while. When he woke, it was dark. A single candle flickered on the bedside table, illuminating the room, and Roog was sitting in the chair next to him. In such close quarters, Rahal saw clearly, for the first time, the deep shadows under his eyes, the way his skin clung like wet paper to his cheekbones, the indents in his lower lip where he’d chewed it. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.  
  
How long had Roog been sitting there, watching him?  
  
“You’re awake,” Roog said.  
  
Rahal nodded.  
  
“Sorry I was such an ass out there.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Rahal said.  
  
Roog shifted in his chair, planted his feet, as if trying to get comfortable in the blanket he wore around his shoulders. He said, “I’ve never been good at talking about my feelings.”  
  
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Rahal said. He shifted as well, propping himself up against the headboard. He felt too vulnerable laying down. “You never hold back when your temper gets the best of you.”  
  
“Yeah. Anger. I’m good at expressing that,” Roog agreed. “But anger’s not complicated. It’s hard to hold back when you’re blind with rage. It’s the gentler emotions—”  
  
“Like remorse?” Rahal supplied.  
  
“Guilt.”  
  
Rahal let his head fall back against the pillows. “I already told you, Roog, it’s not your fault.”  
  
“I don’t mean what happened to you.” Roog’s eyes flicked to the candle, gazed into the flame, and it felt to Rahal, at that moment, that there had never been so much distance between them. At that moment, Roog was somewhere else, somewhere Rahal couldn’t follow. “When I found you chained to that whipping post, Nenet tried to stop me from cutting you down. We fought. I beat her to death with my bare hands. Her bones—” He paused, swallowed, and his eyes met Rahal’s again, dark and haunted. “They felt like eggshells breaking under my fists. They were so fragile.”  
  
Rahal said nothing. Roog had killed for him—and now he was wrestling with the fallout, doubting whether he had done the right thing. That Nenet had held him down as he screamed, as Zaia cut out his eye, meant very little in the shadow of that guilt. What could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound like hollow solace?  
  
“Zaia’s men were easy to kill,” Roog went on, leaning forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “But Nenet… I don’t know, man. It felt wrong.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck. I need a drink.”  
  
“A drink won’t help,” Rahal murmured.  
  
“Maybe not. But it’ll numb things for awhile.” Roog took a deep breath, let it out again slowly. “Look, I didn’t come in here to talk about my problems. I wanted to tell you—”  
  
Rahal’s pulse quickened. He stayed still and quiet under the blanket, as if Roog were a timid woodland animal, as if sudden movement might scare him off. That Roog hadn’t asked about his ordeal, had been so absorbed by his own demons that he’d made this all about him—none of that mattered, as long as Roog loved him. As long as Roog told him he hadn’t imagined the heat in his eyes when he saw Rahal sheathed in a pearl-white dress, standing at the top of those stairs in the Sun Palace.  
  
“I wanted to tell you I’m glad you’re okay,” Roog said.  
  
The disappointment tasted bitter in his throat. Rahal swallowed it, nodded, dropped his gaze to the blanket. “As am I.”  
  
“And that Isaara chartered us a boat that’ll take us back to Falena,” he added. “We sail tomorrow morning. We’re going home.”  
  
“Home.” He’d spent so long in Zaia’s dungeon that he thought he’d never see Falena again. It still felt like a dream. But then reality hit him; he squared his jaw and looked up at Roog. “Miakis will be waiting for you.”  
  
Roog frowned. “Miakis?”  
  
“I saw you together the night Zaia dragged me from the palace,” Rahal said. Roog had stood there bare-chested, breathing hard, the laces of his pants undone, watching Zaia humiliate him in front of Falena’s nobles. And next to him, Miakis, her hair disheveled, her lips kiss-red. “The commotion must have interrupted you. I apologize.”  
  
“Rahal, that wasn’t—”  
  
Rahal raised a hand to silence him. “It’s all right, Roog. You couldn’t have known I’d go snooping around Zaia’s room. I don’t blame you for anything.”  
  
“But I came for you,” Roog said fiercely. He leaned forward, placing his hand on Rahal’s arm, his thumb stroking the skin once, as if to persuade. “I came for you.”  
  
“I know. Thank you. And now you can go home to her.”  
  
Roog stared at him for a moment, the warmth in his eyes flickering, dying. He withdrew his hand, sat back in the chair, and laughed hollowly. “Runes, you never change, do you? I may be shit at emotions, but you’re worse.”  
  
“What’s the supposed to mean?”  
  
“Nothing.” He rose, towering over Rahal in the candlelight. “I have to finish packing. Isaara will help you get ready for the journey in the morning.” He moved to the door, pulled it open, hesitated, turned back to Rahal. “I didn’t want things to be like this.”  
  
And then he was gone.  
  
“Neither did I,” Rahal said quietly into the emptiness.


	11. Eleven

The next morning, true to his word, Roog was nowhere to be found. As the sun rose over the trees hedging Isaara’s property, Rahal kept glancing out the window, unable to help himself, hoping for a glimpse of him. But the yard remained empty, and the house silent. There was nothing but the bright chirping of birds in the tree outside. The disappointment was a physical ache between his lungs.  
  
Isaara helped Rahal dress. She held his arm as he stepped into a pair of loose black trousers, eased him into a freshly-pressed riding shirt, then tucked in the tails and laced up the fly of his pants. Over these, she fastened a thick woollen travel cloak, securing it shut with a silver pin shaped like a seashell.  
  
“There,” she said, smiling, and patted him on the shoulder. “You look handsome.”  
  
“You flatter me, Isaara.”  
  
“No. I only speak the truth.” She rubbed her hands together and cast her gaze around the room. The sheets where Rahal had lain were still rumpled. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains. Was she thinking about how lonely it would be without him? Without Roog? “Now, then. I do not suppose you have much to take with you.”  
  
“No,” Rahal said. “Zaia brought me here with nothing but the clothes on my back. And then he took those, too.” He smiled wryly. “Even if I did have anything to take, I’m not sure I’d want to. I’d rather leave my bad memories here.”  
  
He almost regretted saying it. Isaara had treated him with such kindness that he no longer believed all Nagarists were zealots, and he didn’t want to hurt her. But it was the truth. He hoped that, with time, this would all feel like nothing more than a bad dream.  
  
But she only folded her arms, nodding. “Yes. I would not blame you. I hope you will be able to forget this nightmare once you return to Falena.”  
  
“Isaara…” he began, taking the old woman’s hand. “I owe you everything. You risked so much for my sake. Even if I manage to forget everything Zaia did to me, I’ll always remember you.”  
  
She waved him off, clucking, and began to strip the bed—the coverlet, the pillows, then the sheets. “I only did what any decent person would do.”  
  
“Most people wouldn’t put their lives on the line for a stranger.”  
  
She chuckled and piled the sheets at the end of the bed. “Perhaps I have a taste for adventure. In any case, I was glad to help.”  
  
“I think I’ve had enough of adventure to last me a few years.”  
  
“It is good, then, that you are going home. Now. Shall we?”   
  
She took his arm and guided him to the door, slowly, on account of his still-tender feet. They passed into the empty, sun-lit kitchen, then through the door to the yard, where two horses and a cart awaited them. Roog was already seated at the reins, dressed in a brown woollen robe, his forehead beading with sweat in the unforgiving Nagarea sun. When Rahal met his eyes, he shifted his gaze to Isaara.  
  
“We’re gonna miss the boat if we don’t hurry,” he said.  
  
Isaara tutted at him as she helped Rahal climb into the back of the cart. “Patience, Roog. They will wait for us.”  
  
Once they were all piled into the back, Roog snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward. Isaara had told Rahal it was an hour’s ride to the dock, but to Rahal, it seemed like longer. They endured it in an uncomfortable silence, Isaara with her arm around Rahal’s shoulders, protectively, the way a mother would hold her child. And all the while, Rahal stared at the back of Roog’s head, willing him to say something. Willing himself to say something.   
  
But neither of them said a word.  
  


*

  
It was close to noon when they reached their destination. The sun hung above them in a hazy sky. He’d hardly moved, but Rahal’s clothes were already damp with sweat, sticking to his skin like an itchy film. The dock itself was little more than a few pieces of rotting driftwood slotted together and secured with fraying nautical rope. A small fishing boat bobbed in the water next to it.   
  
As Roog drew the wagon to a halt, a bearded man Rahal judged to be about sixty poked his head out the window of the boat’s single cabin. He eyed them for a moment, his weathered brown face drawn in suspicion, before he finally came out to greet them.  
  
“These the Falenans?” he said to Isaara in the Nagarist tongue. At least that was what Rahal thought he said; the man had barely two teeth in his head and spoke with a gummy lisp.  
  
“Yes,” she replied in the same language as she clambered down from the wagon bed. “And I’ve brought the fee you requested.” She untied a black pouch from her belt and tossed it to him; the coins within jingled when he caught it. “Two-thousand, wasn’t it?”  
  
He scowled, looking from Roog to Rahal, then back to Isaara, his fingers kneading the pouch. “You’re askin’ a lot of us. Smugglin’ them across the border, no questions asked…”  
  
Isaara had been guiding Rahal down from the wagon, but she stilled at the words, her hand tightening on Rahal’s arm. Slowly, she turned to glare at the man. “I was clear about the circumstances when we made these arrangements.”  
  
“Just pointin’ out the danger you’re puttin’ us in.”  
  
Roog came to Isaara’s side and gently touched her elbow. “What’s he saying?”  
  
“He wants more money,” Rahal answered.  
  
Roog’s faze flicked to him, his mouth curving downward under his beard. “Well, we don’t have any more. I used almost all the potch I had to get here. I have fifty left. That’s it.”  
  
Rahal nodded, then turned to the fisherman and said, “We can give you fifty potch. It’s not much, but it’s worth a lot more than your currency. You’ll probably get double when you exchange it.”  
  
The man’s eyes took in Rahal’s still-swaddled feet, the yellow bruises on his cheeks and throat, the bloody scarf concealing his empty socket, and his lip curled. Rahal, all too-aware that he looked exactly like someone who’d gotten on the bad side of a crime lord, squared his jaw and held his gaze. He wouldn’t blame the man for turning them away; who in their right mind would want to tangle with someone who had done such a terrible thing to Rahal? But after a moment of deliberation, he threw up a hand in acquiescence and stomped back onto his boat.   
  
Isaara’s grip on Rahal’s arm relaxed. “I hate to leave you alone with him.” She began to fuss with his cloak, yanking it straight on his shoulders. “I do not think he will do anything unscrupulous. But communication could be a problem…”  
  
“It’ll be all right, Isaara. I speak the language.”  
  
She smiled and pulled him into a hug. The smell of cloves enveloped him, and the warmth of her strong, lean body comforted him. He returned the embrace, holding her as she held him. They’d only known each other for a few days. But he would miss her, almost as much as he missed his own mother, who’d died when he was young. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to have someone take care of him that way.   
  
When she released him, she did the same to Roog. Rahal watched them, watched the way Roog’s eyes squeezed shut, the way his face turned into her hair. As hard as it was to say goodbye to her, it would be much harder for Roog. They’d clearly bonded during their travels—hardly surprising, considering Roog, like Rahal, had lost his mother at a young age.  
  
“You must go now,” she said, pushing Roog gently away. “And you must look after each other. Until you reach Falena again, you will have no other allies.”  
  
“Yeah. We will,” Roog said.  
  
“I hope we will meet each other again someday,” she said.  
  
Rahal doubted they ever would. He had no intention of returning to Nagarea anytime soon, and it seemed to him that Isaara’s traveling days were behind her. But still he said, “I’m sure we will. Thank you again. I owe you everything.”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks for all your help, Isaara,” Roog said as he took Rahal’s arm. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”  
  
Her eyes filling with tears, Isaara pressed her fingers to her lips and blew them a kiss. With Roog’s help, Rahal managed to hobble onto the deck of the boat, where the surly captain and his no less surly men awaited them. Once they were onboard, they pulled up the gangplank and pushed away from the dock.  
  
“Name’s Danna,” the captain said in the Nagarist tongue. “We’ll reach Lelcar in a day n’ a half. Just stay out of our way, n’ we’ll stay out of yours.”  
  
“How will you explain our presence at the Falenan border?” Rahal asked.  
  
Danna shrugged, scratching at his patchy beard. “We’ll say you’re slaves. As long as you keep your traps shut, they’ll be none the wiser.”  
  
Rahal seriously doubted the Falenan border guards would be so nonchalant about undocumented slaves on a fishing boat, but before he could ask further questions, Danna stormed off, bawling at his lackeys about the sails. Rahal sighed and let it go. He’d made it this far. Perhaps it would be wise to leave the rest of the journey in someone else’s hands, if not to fate.  
  
As the boat picked up speed, he went to the rail for his last look at Isaara. Roog joined him after a moment. Isaara raised a hand when she saw them looking, and they waved until she was just a faceless shape on the horizon, until she was swallowed by the light of the midday sun.

  
  
*  
  


There was something about boats that made him uneasy now—perhaps because the last time he’d been in one, he’d faced the threat of torture and a gruesome death.  
  
Rahal lay in the boat’s single shadowed cabin, hands folded on his belly, and stared at the ceiling. He’d hardly moved from his bed of cargo netting since he’d boarded, except to relieve himself in a pot they’d left for him. The wounds on his feet were still tender. He didn’t want to aggravate them, or gods forbid, reopen them. As usual, he was alone; Roog had spent the last day and a half out on deck, returning only when it was time to sleep, and always in the company of one of the men. It left them no privacy to talk. So instead Rahal had lain awake all night, listening to Roog’s soft snoring, too consumed by his worries to sleep.  
  
The journey home was the least of their worries. What would happen to them when they disembarked in Lelcar? Roog hadn’t brought it up, and knowing him, the possibility that the prince had marked Rahal a traitor and Roog a deserter probably hadn’t even crossed his mind. They might return to Falena in one piece, only to have their heads chopped off by a prince who felt his hands were tied.  
  
Besides that, something Zaia had said still bothered him.   
  
We’ve had an agent watching you since you assumed the Commandership—and the Commander before you. I knew who you were long before I ever came here.   
  
Clearly, a spy had been operating under their noses for months, if not years. But who? No matter how many times he went over it in his head, sifting through possible candidates and thinking back to when they joined the Dragon Cavalry, he came up empty. He’d fought beside every one of his men for years. Like him, most of them had joined as children. Was it possible that Zaia’s family had slipped a child spy into their ranks?  
  
When his internal dialogue exhausted him, he closed his eyes and tried not to think. But it was so hard not to. His mind just strayed right back to Roog—wondering what he was doing with himself all day, and what he was thinking, and whether he could ever forgive Rahal for his short-lived relationship with Craig. What he wanted, more than anything, was Roog’s warm, sturdy body stretched out next to him, so that he could finally sleep, knowing he was safe.   
  
The door slammed open, jolting him from his thoughts. Roog entered the room with Danna on his heels. He realized, belatedly, that the boat had begun to slow.  
  
“I don’t understand a word he’s saying,” Roog grumbled, standing an empty barrel upright and using it as a stool.   
  
Danna glared at Roog before turning to Rahal. “We’re almost at the border checkpoint. Just stay in here n’ try not to make any noise. Don’t even talk.” He jabbed a finger at them. “Got it?”  
  
Without waiting for Rahal’s reply, he returned to the deck, closing the door behind him. A silence ensued. Rahal watched Roog from across the cramped space, but Roog refused to meet his eye.   
  
“What are we going to do once we’re back in Falena?” he asked in a soft voice.  
  
“Dunno. I haven’t given it much thought.”  
  
“Did you plan this at all?”  
  
Roog grunted. “I didn’t have a lot of time to plan. I just left Falena and figured I’d work it all out later.”  
  
“Why did you—”  
  
Roog held up a hand, cutting him off, as the sounds of heavy footfalls and gruff voices, speaking in broken Nagarist, came from the deck. The border guard. Though he strained to hear, the voices were too muffled for Rahal to understand what they were saying. So instead, he listened in apprehension as the footsteps circled the deck, until at last they stopped outside the door.  
  
“What’s in here?” said the voice from the other side.  
  
“Just cargo n’ a pair of slaves,” Danna said. Rahal could almost picture him, standing with his arms crossed, his unimpressed gaze boring into the guards from under a furrowed brow. “Got ‘em in Armes. Don’t have papers, n’ they don’t speak a word of anything but their own language.”  
  
“Can I look?”  
  
“Sure. Don’t see a problem with that.”  
  
The guard entered. After everything he’d been through, Rahal should have been relieved to see one of his own countrymen, but his entire body tensed as the man’s eyes scanned the room. He could just tell the guard who he was. But he wasn’t ready to cast off the veil of anonymity quite yet. Not when he didn’t know whether he’d be marched straight to Agate Prison.  
  
Finally, the guard’s eyes settled on Rahal.  
  
“Slave?” he said in Nagarist.  
  
Rahal and Roog exchanged a look. Roog didn’t understand a word of Nagarist, so his confusion wasn’t feigned, but Rahal had to carefully school his face into a mask of bewilderment.  
  
The guard tried again in Falenan. “This man says you’re Armes slaves. Is this true?”  
  
Roog shrugged, and Rahal reached into the recesses of his memory for the few Armes phrases he’d learned from Nifsara. She’d taught them to him over a pitcher of beer, so his grasp on the words was foggy.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he said, hoping his halting cadence came across as shy rather than ignorant.  
  
“Typical Armes dimwits,” the guard muttered in Falenan. “Too lazy to learn a language other than their own.” He shook his head and turned back to Danna. “I’ll let you pass. But finish your business quickly in Lelcar. If you’re not back here by the end of the week, we’ll come looking for you.”   
  
And then they were alone again. Rahal released the tension in his body with a slow exhale. He dared not say anything until the footsteps had receded, until the boat had resumed its course through the waters of the Feitas.   
  
“Not much longer now,” Rahal said. “We’ll be in Lelcar in a matter of hours.”  
  
“Less than that, if the wind is with us.” Rooh rose and stretched, groaning when his back popped. “I’m heading back on deck. You should rest some more.”  
  
“Roog, I was hoping we could—”  
  
“Later,” Roog said, and exited.  
  
But he couldn’t rest. Not when the matter of the spy still weighed so heavily on his mind. He grasped the crate next to him and hauled himself out of the cargo netting. His feet ached, but not so much that he couldn’t walk on them, and he left the cabin with slow steps, holding the wall for balance.  
  
Outside, Roog stood at the rail, staring out at the churning Feitas with his arms crossed over his chest. Rahal went to stand next to him, close enough to touch. The fresh air was welcome after almost two days trapped in a space that stank of sweaty men.  
  
“Zaia told me he had a spy,” Rahal said. He’d expected Roog to say something. But Roog said nothing, so he went on: “He said the spy had been watching me. For months. Maybe he was even watching you. He said… he said he knew we’d been fighting.” He turned to Roog at last and found himself under the scrutiny of that dark gaze. “But no one knew except Miakis. So how?”  
  
“Who had access to your quarters?” Roog demanded.  
  
Rahal shook his head. “No one. I kept it locked at all times, and I had the only key.”  
  
“And no one could have taken the key when you weren’t paying attention?”  
  
Again Rahal shook his head. “It kept it hooked on my belt. I would have noticed if someone had taken it.”  
  
“What about your letters? Did you send them yourself, or hand them off to a subordinate to deal with?”  
  
“I usually gave them to the messenger myself.” Rahal frowned, trying to remember. The details of his daily routine were mundane. He’d performed them automatically, without thinking. But… “Saba. I gave one or two to Saba to seal for me. I never outright referenced our fight, but in one of them, I asked if we could talk, so that I could explain…” The blood drained from his face as he realized the implications. “I put Saba in charge of Sauronix when I left for Sol-Falena.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Perhaps they were jumping to conclusions. Saba had been a member of the Dragon Cavalry for more than ten years, and so loyal, so talented, that he’d been the only realistic choice for Rahal’s second-in-command. There was no way he could be one of Zaia’s men. Surely there was another.   
  
“We have to go to Sauronix,” Roog said. He was leaning over the rail now, his hands clasped so tight they’d gone white. “As fast as possible. When we arrive in Lelcar, we’ll ask Wasil for a pair of horses and ride.”  
  
Rahal leaned on the rail, too, frowning. “And what exactly are you planning to do when we get there? We can’t just point the finger at him without proof.”  
  
“I was thinking an interrogation.”  
  
“If he is a spy, he’s not just going to roll over and spill all his secrets.”  
  
“Then I’ll beat an answer out of him.”  
  
“Roog. I have doubts that he’s the one we’re looking for.”  
  
Roog’s face darkened. “Why are you defending him? Do you have a better candidate? ‘Cause I sure as hell can’t think of anyone else who fits the bill.”  
  
“I just don’t think it would be so obvious.” Rahal sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, wincing when they caught in a knot. He worked it out, chewing his lip, before continuing. “There has to be someone else. Something we’re overlooking…”  
  
“Why’s that?” Roog was scowling openly at him now. “Because he pulled the wool over your eyes and you never suspected a thing?”  
  
Rahal flinched. There was no point in denying it; Roog could read him better than anyone he knew, including Rania. If their misgivings turned out to be correct, he’d feel like a fool. Gods help him, he was already embarrassed by this turn of events.  
  
“He fooled me too,” Roog said, his voice gentler now. “And Craig. So stop kicking yourself over it.”  
  
“Roog—”  
  
Roog pushed himself off the rail, shaking his head, and tossed the tail of his cloak over his shoulder. “We’ll be in Lelcar soon. I need to think about this.” He gestured at Rahal’s linen-wrapped feet. “And you need to rest. It’s the last you’ll have for awhile.”  
  
“Wait.” And this time Roog did pause, though he kept his back to Rahal, refused to turn his head. “Why did you go to all this trouble for me?”  
  
Roog chuckled without humour. “Because I had to know.”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“If you were really dead. I didn’t want to believe it. Not until I saw it for myself. And I—” He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”   
  
And he left Rahal to his thoughts, and the roaring churn of the river.

  
*

  
When they reached Lelcar in the early afternoon, Danna pulled the gangplank almost before they’d alighted on the dock, then pushed off without so much as a goodbye. That was fine with Rahal. It would be better for them both if they forgot they’d ever met.   
  
Roog put an arm around Rahal’s waist and helped him hobble across town. It felt good to be held, but his throbbing feet took most of the enjoyment out of it, and Roog was too preoccupied with the next step of their plan to notice that it was the closest they’d been since the end of the war. He clung to Roog’s broad shoulder and tried not to grimace with every step—tried not to notice the curious eyes that followed them across the eastern islet.   
  
His beauty had always attracted attention. But it was a very different thing to attract it with a gruesome face.  
  
He’d expected Wasil to be up to his neck in paperwork and meetings, but he had them ushered into his office as soon as they arrived. He did a double-take when he saw Rahal.  
  
“What in the world happened to you?” he asked.  
  
“It’s a long story,” Roog said as he eased Rahal onto a plush velvet couch against the wall. “We need your help.”  
  
“My help?” Wasil poured three glasses of rum from a decanter on his desk. “I should be turning you over to the prince.” He handed Roog one glass, and Rahal another, and took a deep draught from the third. “There’s an arrest warrant out for the two of you. But you don’t look surprised.”  
  
“Well, we’re deserters and traitors,” Rahal said wearily, setting his glass aside without drinking from it.  
  
“I know you’re upstanding men, so I’ll hear you out,” Wasil said. He sat on the edge of his desk and looked between the two of them. “Tell me. What is it that you need my help with?”  
  
“We have reason to believe there’s a spy at Sauronix,” Roog said. “That’s what Zaia told Rahal, anyway.”  
  
Wasil raised an eyebrow. “And you believe him?”  
  
“He had a lot of information that very few people knew about,” Rahal said. He glanced at Roog. “Personal things. Things I’ve shared with nobody but Roog and Miakis. Zaia wasn’t a trustworthy man, but I think he was telling the truth about this.”  
  
“Does the prince know about this?” Wasil asked.  
  
“No. I never had the chance to tell him.”  
  
Wasil swirled the drink in his glass, frowning. “And do you know who this spy might be?”  
  
“Yes. I believe it’s the man I left in charge of Sauronix when I left for Sol-Falena,” Rahal said. “His name is Saba. He’s been a member of the Dragon Cavalry for many years. I had no reason to distrust him.”  
  
“I’ll send a letter to the prince immediately,” Wasil said.  
  
“We were hoping you could give us a couple of horses,” Roog interjected. “We want to ride to Sauronix and question him ourselves.”  
  
Wasil winced and set the glass down on the desk. Slowly, he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Roog. I know you mean well and that you care about Falena, but you’re wanted by the crown. I can’t just let you—”  
  
“Then when you send your letter to the prince, tell him we’ll meet him in Sauronix and he can arrest us there,” Roog said. “We don’t have time to fuck around, Wasil. There’s a Nagarist spy on the loose, and gods only know what he’s been up to these past few weeks. What information he’s handed to the Nagarists.”  
  
Rahal had always liked Wasil. He could be bumbling at times, but he had a good heart and meant well. He could see now that Wasil was struggling with his options—to do what his heart was telling him and let them go to Sauronix, or cover his ass and turn them over to the prince. The problem was, he didn’t know the man well enough to guess which one he’d choose.  
  
“I shouldn’t let you go,” Wasil said finally. He went around his desk and pulled a cord that hung next to his bookshelf. Somewhere in the depths of his manor, a bell rang. “But I will. I’ll provide you two horses and have my housekeeper pack a meal for the journey.” When Rahal started to thank him, he held up a finger. “No. As soon as you leave, I’m sending a letter to the prince to tell him what’s going on. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Roog said tersely. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”  
  
The next half hour was a flurry of activity around them. The housekeeper bustled in to get her orders. Wasil scrawled out a note, sealed it, and rang for his messenger. By the time he’d polished off his glass of rum, the stable hand had come to tell them the horses were ready, the housekeeper had brought a basket of sandwiches for their ride, and a letter was on its way to the prince to let him know his wayward Cavalrymen had returned. If nothing else, Wasil was an efficient man.  
  
“Ride hard,” he said, clasping first Roog’s hand, and then Rahal’s. “I put in a good word for you with the prince. I hope he won’t come down too hard on you.”  
  
“Thanks, Wasil. We owe you one,” Roog said.  
  
“My housekeeper will see you out,” he said, opening the door for them. “May the gods keep you well, gentlemen.”

  
*

  
They pushed their horses hard and arrived at Sauronix well after dark. It had probably been foolish to ride so recklessly at night, but it couldn’t be helped; neither wanted to wait another minute to alert their fellow Cavalrymen of Saba’s duplicity.   
  
They cantered right into the courtyard at the castle, their horses’ hooves clattering on the flagstones. The handful of Cavalrymen who were posted on the walls and at the gates came forward, their faces alarmed. They hadn’t yet recognized Roog and Rahal in the darkness.  
  
Roog swung down out of his saddle and held up his hands as they approached, their hands on the hilts of their swords. “Easy, guys, it’s me. Roog.” He jerked his head at Rahal. “And your Commander.”  
  
“So it is.” The one nearest them—Rahal thought his name was Husa, but couldn’t be sure—let his hand drop to his side. The look on his face was one of relief, but still he hung back, as if unsure what to do. “We thought you were gone for good. The prince sent word that you’d been taken by the Nagarists, and that Saba was in command until further notice.” He paused, peering closer at Rahal. “Commander—your face!”  
  
Rahal placed a hand on Roog’s shoulder and used it as a brace as he slid down from the saddle. “I know how I look, but there’s no time to explain. Where is Saba?”  
  
Husa shrugged. “He disappeared two nights ago. Left without a trace. The Cavalry’s been in absolute chaos.”  
  
Roog grunted. “Disappeared? Well, that’s just what we need.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Saba asked. “What’s going on?”  
  
Roog waved his questions aside impatiently. “Who’s in command now?”  
  
“No one. We have riders out looking for Saba, and the prince has been informed. We’ve been trying to hold it all together as best we can…”  
  
Their river journey, the ride through the night, and now the knowledge that the Dragon Cavalry was being run by under-qualified recruits were starting to take their toll on Rahal’s body. He tried not to sag against his horse’s sweating flank. All he wanted was to lie down. He looked at Roog to explain the situation.  
  
“Saba is a spy,” he said without preamble. “He was feeding the Nagarists information—the same Nagarists that did this to Rahal. We need to find him. Now. I can go out now to help with the search.”  
  
Husa recoiled. “A spy? How? It’s impossible. He’s been here for years.”  
  
“I thought the same thing, too,” Rahal said. “But there are any number of ways they could have smuggled him in here. He could have been fostered by a Falenan family as a child, then pushed to join the Cavalry when he was of age. We haven’t had the most thorough background checks, and we assumed Nagarea had no way of accessing Falena, besides the Feitas.” But as he’d discovered, border guards weren’t particularly thorough themselves.  
  
“We won’t know unless we catch him,” Roog said impatiently. “So let’s hustle a bit, eh fellas?”  
  
Husa shifted from one foot to the other and glanced uncomfortably at one of his fellow guards. “About that…”  
  
“The prince’s orders,” Rahal said.  
  
Husa nodded. “We’re supposed to take you into custody. I feel terrible about it, Commander, but…”  
  
“I understand,” Rahal said, though he didn’t much like it. “We’ve done all we can. I submit myself to the Dragon Cavalry.”  
  
Husa nodded grimly. Roog opened his mouth to protest, but closed it just as quickly when Rahal shot him a sharp look. His shoulders sagged, and he held out his arms, as if he expected to be clapped in irons again. Husa tilted his head, then burst into laughter.  
  
“I’m sorry, Commander,” he said, after the mirth had passed. “I shouldn’t have laughed. But since you’re coming willingly, we’re not going to restrain you or throw you in the dungeon. We’ll keep you in the guest quarters upstairs. They’re bare bones, but at least they’re not uncomfortable.”  
  
They were escorted into the castle. At this hour, the halls were quiet; they passed only a few recruits, all of whom treated Rahal with the same gaping curiosity he’d received in Lelcar. He tried to ignore it. They all still respected him. He was sure of that. As a teen, he might have reacted in much the same way if he’d seen a disfigured Commander Laden being marched through the halls like a royal prisoner.  
  
They arrived at two rooms on the second floor, near the front of the castle. Rahal waited in silence as another guard brought the keys, then as Husa unlocked the doors.   
  
“I’m sorry about this, Commander, really,” he said again. “I wish I didn’t have to.”  
  
“You’re just following orders. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”  
  
Husa nodded, wringing the hem of his tunic between his hands. “We’ll send word to the prince tonight, sir. It should only be a few days before he gets here. You won’t have to wait long.”  
  
No. Not long at all until he puts us to death.  
  
He smiled at Husa, then looked up to meet Roog’s eyes. There were still so many things he wanted to say—wanted to ask. Would he ever have a chance now? He didn’t want to leave this world without telling Roog that he’d always loved him, and would until his last breath, no matter what had passed between them. He didn’t want his life to end with this argument still hanging unresolved between them. He considered blurting it out right there, in front of Husa and all the other men.  
  
But Roog stepped into his own chamber before he could summon the courage to do it.  
  
Rahal sighed. “Thank you, Husa. If the men do manage to find Saba, please let me know. It would put my mind at ease.”  
  
“Yes, Commander. I promise.”  
  
Rahal tried not to shudder when the door closed behind him. The scrape of the key in the lock brought back unwanted memories of another dungeon where he’d so recently been imprisoned. But to his relief, the room was comfortably, if not sparsely, furnished—there was a wool blanket on the crudely hewn bed, a bench where he could sit, and the chamber pot at least had a lid on it. A fraying tapestry hung from the wall beside a small, barred window that offered a view of the courtyard.  
  
Not knowing what else to do, he sat on the bench.  
  
Everything’s going to be all right. One way or another. You’ll see.  
  
And he tried to make himself believe it.

  
*

  
Roog spent five days locked in that cell before the prince’s retinue arrived. Five days of wondering what would become of them, of wondering whether this was his grim future, of wondering how Rahal was handling his own captivity in the room next door. The walls were so thick that they couldn’t communicate with each other, even if they yelled. And the guard stationed outside Roog’s door, the same one who brought him his meals, refused to relay a message to Rahal.  
  
The sound of boots running down the hall outside his door, of shouts and barked orders,  startled him from a light doze. At first, he didn’t know what it meant—but he glanced out his barred window and saw a few of the prince’s royal guards milling around the courtyard.  
  
He’d expected the prince to come to him first. After all, between him and Rahal, his crime had been the most egregious. But he waited. And waited. And waited some more. He paced the tiny room they’d locked him in, sat on the bench and chewed his nails, pounded his fists against the wall. Still nothing.  
  
When the knock at last came at his door, he expected the prince to enter. Instead, he got Miakis. He sprang up from the bench at the sight of her. She looked the same as she always had, dressed in her Queen’s Knights uniform with her glossy chestnut hair falling around her face. For some absurd reason, he thought she’d look different. The two weeks he’d been gone seemed more like years.  
  
“The prince gave me permission to see you,” she said, even though he hadn’t asked for an explanation. “He’s with Rahal right now. I’m sorry you’re being kept in here like a criminal.”  
  
“It’s not so bad. At least they didn’t throw me in the dungeon.”  
  
Her face fell, and she rushed forward to put her arms around him. It felt like ages since he’d been touched by another human, and he crushed her to him, burying his face in her hair. This was how he’d wanted to touch Rahal after they were reunited. But he’d managed to fuck that up, hadn’t he?  
  
“It’s good to see you.” She didn’t release him. She’d tucked her head under his chin, resting it warmly on his chest. Roog swallowed the lump in his throat. “I was so worried. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if you got caught.”  
  
He let his hand rest between her shoulder blades. “Yeah. But I didn’t.”  
  
She drew back and looked into his eyes, searching. Their faces were so close that he was tempted to lean in and kiss her, but there was a steel in her expression that stopped him.  
  
“Tell me everything,” she said.  
  
She sat next to him on the bed while he recounted what had happened after she’d pushed him from the window of his quarters. The long swim to shore, the longer journey to Lelcar, how he’d met Isaara on the mountain pass between Falena and Nagarea. Miakis listened quietly, her face impassive, until he reached the part where he’d discovered Rahal chained to the post at Zaia’s castle.   
  
“I’ve seen a lot of cruelty,” she murmured, “between the Godwins' seizure of the Sun Palace and the civil war. But I can’t believe they did that to him.”  
  
“I can,” he said darkly. “I mean, they didn’t have a problem roughing him up under the queen’s roof. Once they got him into their own territory…”  
  
Miakis shook her head, placing a hand on his arm. “I don’t need all the details. I’ll see him myself soon enough. Tell me the rest.”  
  
And so Roog did. By the time he was finished, the sun had begun to set, laying stripes of warm, buttery light through the window and onto the floor. Miakis was facing him now, one leg tucked under her, the other swinging loose off the side of the bench.  
  
“I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” he said. “We don’t know where Saba went, but my best guess is back to Nagarea. If the prince gives us the go-ahead, we’ll help track him down, drag him back here, and make him pay.”  
  
“Roog…” The furrow in her brow deepened. It took him a moment to realize she was avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know how to say this in a way that won’t hurt you, so I’m just going to lay it out. You’re lucky the prince hasn’t already tossed you in Agate and thrown away the key. You won’t be returning to the Dragon Cavalry. And he definitely won’t be letting you work for the crown.”  
  
He’d already known it deep down, but hearing her say it hit him like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t remember a time when the Dragon Cavalry wasn’t the foundation of his life. He’d worked his ass off to get this far, had sacrificed so much to be Commander. His entire life was structured around the needs of the Cavalry. Part of him had refused to believe it could be torn away so easily. What the hell was he supposed to do without it?  
  
Miakis blew out a breath. “Runes. I probably should’ve softened the blow a little, huh?” She dropped a comforting hand on his knee. “Look, I don’t think the prince is going to put you away for the rest of your life. He probably still feels like he owes you for fighting alongside him in the civil war. But he has to mete out some kind of punishment.”  
  
Roog nodded, but he still felt numb, like he was trapped in a bad dream. “What about Rahal?”  
  
“I don’t know, Roog.”  
  
“Isn’t what happened to him punishment enough?”  
  
“You can ask the prince yourself when he comes to talk to you,” she said, “but promise me you’ll control yourself. You won’t help your case if you lose your temper with him.”  
  
“Miakis, I’m not gonna sit here and let the prince fuck Rahal over—”  
  
“He’ll probably send you both away. Together.”   
  
“Send us away?”  
  
Miakis nodded. “Yes. As in exile.”  
  
That piece of news was almost as unwelcome as the possibility of rotting away in prison. “So what does that mean? I’ll never see you again?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. We could still see each other.”  
  
“Not the way I want.” He placed his hand over hers where it was still clasped on his knee and laced their fingers together. “I want to be together the way we were the night I left. How are we supposed to do that if I can’t set foot in Falena?”  
  
Miakis smiled, but it was weighted with sadness. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Roog. I’m not the one you want.”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“Roog, stop. I’m not blind. I know you have feelings for him.” She smiled and stroked his cheek. “I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice. And besides, it would never work between us. Not in the long term, anyway. It’d be a fun fling, but I have my duties to the queen.”   
  
“You’re not a second choice,” he said fiercely. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he added: “I’m serious, Mi. Why would you think that?”  
  
She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, folding one arm behind her head in a stretch, then the other. Finally, she turned to look at him again. “Because of the way you reacted when you found out about Craig. It wasn’t normal, Roog. You behaved like a man who just caught his wife in bed with the blacksmith.”  
  
He shook his head. “Miakis…”  
  
“Then you threw away your Commandership without a second thought. Yeah, you told the prince you’d stay, but that was just to get him off your back while you crept off like a thief in the night. You knew Rahal needed you, and he was the only thing you could think about.”  
  
“You’re seeing what you want to see.”  
  
“Can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love him?”  
  
“He’s my best friend,” he said stubbornly.  
  
Miakis threw up her hands in frustration. “You know that’s not what I mean.”  
  
Roog hesitated. He’d done what he’d done because it would have killed something inside of him if Rahal had died. He’d never felt that way about anyone else. Not even Miakis, no matter how much she meant to him.   
  
“There’s nothing wrong with loving two people at once, Roog.” She came forward and smoothed her hand down the lapel of his jacket, raising her eyes to his. “But you have to choose.”  
  
He shook his head and put his hand over hers. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have feelings for me, Miakis. If he did, he would’ve said something by now.”  
  
“Not necessarily. You were scared to tell him how you feel, right? Maybe he was scared, too.”  
  
Roog couldn’t imagine Rahal being scared of anything. He’d never shied from telling Roog what he really thought, never hesitated to call him an idiot when he deserved it, or praise him the rare time he came up with a good idea.   
  
But that wasn’t really the same as laying your heart bare for another person, was it?  
  
He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away, shaking his head. “I dunno, Mi. What if I say something and he doesn’t feel the same? What then?”  
  
“You’re worried about your friendship falling apart?” She laughed and sat down again, crossing her legs, the way she had that day in the courtyard only weeks ago. Even though she was trying to propel him into the arms of someone else, he still thought she was beautiful. He still ached to touch her. “Have you even apologized for the way you acted about Craig?”  
  
He gritted his teeth, saying nothing.  
  
“I thought so,” she said, nodding. “Look, your friendship’s already limping along as it is. You have nothing to lose. Explaining yourself will probably help.”  
  
Roog looked at the wall that stood between him and Rahal, as if it could give him some new understanding of the man he’d known all his life. Could it really be so simple? Could Rahal forgive him so easily? He was having a hard enough time forgiving himself. Every time he thought about the way he’d treated Rahal, he felt ashamed all over again.  
  
A knock came at the door, and a gruff voice from the other side said, “His Highness the prince requests admittance.”  
  
It was too soon. In reality, they’d been talking for twenty minutes, but it seemed more like seconds. He looked at Miakis with a quiet desperation as she rose from the bench. How was he supposed to say goodbye to her?  
  
“Stay calm,” she said. “The prince won’t put you away, I promise. Send me a letter whenever you get when this is over.”  
  
She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—the kind of kiss that would have led to more, under better circumstances—and hugged him again before pulling away. Then she turned on her heel and walked to the door at a pace too brisk to be natural.  
  
“Miakis!” he said.  
  
She turned, her hand on the doorknob, and looked at him expectantly. Almost hopefully. And of the thousand things he could have said, he didn’t know which to choose.    
  
So he said only: “Goodbye.”

  
*

  
The prince’s mouth was set in a grim line when he entered. He closed the door and locked it behind him, and speared Roog with the kind of disapproving gaze reserved for misbehaving children. He looked so stern that Roog would have laughed had the situation been at all funny. It was anything but funny, though, so instead, he returned the look with a stony glare of his own.  
  
“I’m not going to lecture you about your poor decisions,” the prince said, clasping his hands behind his back as he began to pace the room, “and I’m not going to ask you what the hell you thought you were doing. I think that’s obvious to anyone who knows you.” He paused to lean against the barred window, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’m not going to commend your heroics, either.”  
  
Roog crossed his arms too. “Okay.”  
  
The prince sighed, deflating like a sail without wind, and ran a hand through his hair. “Roog, please understand my position. I have to do what’s right for Falena now. I can’t help everyone.”  
  
“I completely understand.”  
  
“Do you?” His sea blue eyes studied Roog. “The part of me that isn’t furious with you for putting the country at risk is glad you saved Rahal.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
The prince’s gaze turned challenging. “What would you have done in my place, Roog?”  
  
He would have pulled Rahal from Zaia’s clutches at all costs, and to hell with the consequences. It had taken him a long time to realize it, but that was why he wasn’t the prince of Falena or the Commander at Sauronix. Rahal had put Falena before his own feelings, even if it meant his death. And so had Freyjadour, even if it meant sacrificing a loyal officer and a good friend. Men like them were a cut above; men like Roog, always second best. He’d never been good enough, and it pissed him off.   
  
He pissed _himself_ off.  
  
“You did what you had to do. I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Roog said.  
  
The prince nodded. “I can live with that.”  
  
Roog gestured at the room, at the sweating brick walls, the crude wooden furniture, and the stinking bucket in the corner. “So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my days? ‘Cause if that’s the case, you may as well just kill me now.”  
  
“Under Falenan law, you flirted with treason. I could have you beheaded,” the prince said, jabbing a finger at him. “But I won’t. You served me loyally during the war—and after. I’m not going to punish you just because you found something more important to you than your duty, and besides, you ferreted out a spy among the Dragon Cavalry’s ranks. I think you deserve some clemency for that.”  
  
Roog spread his arms. “So what’ll it be?”  
  
The prince took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. “I’m exiling you from Falena. You’re to leave and never return.”  
  
“Where am I supposed to go?” Besides Nagarea, he’d never been outside of Falena. All he knew of the wider world, he’d learned from maps.  
  
“Wherever you want. Armes, perhaps. Or you could go north to the Island Nations. You could sail from Hershville.”  
  
He was about as eager to go to Armes as he was to return to Nagarea. After a moment of quiet reflection, staring with unseeing eyes at his clasped hands, he said, “And what about Rahal?”  
  
“The same punishment,” the prince replied, pushing himself off the wall. “You can go together, or you can go separately. Whatever you choose, you both need to be out of Sauronix by midday tomorrow. My men will escort you to the border or Hershville.”  
  
“That’s it? I don’t get to say my goodbyes?”  
  
“You’ve said your goodbyes to Miakis, haven’t you?”  
  
“Yeah, but what about Lance?”  
  
The prince frowned at him. “You chose to leave him in Sol-Falena. That’s the only goodbye you’ll be getting. I’m sorry.”  
  
It killed him to leave Lance behind. Besides losing Miakis, that was what hurt most about his exile. He’d be well cared for by the rest of the Dragon Cavalry, but he would likely never ride into battle again, not without Roog. No one else had the balls to earn Lance’s trust and respect.  
  
“Thank you for your service, Roog,” the prince said from the doorway. “I mean that.”  
  
The prince had meant it to comfort him. But it just felt like hollow solace.

  
*

  
Early the next morning, he was escorted from his cell by two unsmiling, square-jawed men of the royal guard. They clapped a pair of manacles on his wrists before marching him by the elbows through the halls of Sauronix, past grim-faced Cavalrymen who’d once respected him, and into the courtyard. Rahal was already there, wearing identical restraints, and he was standing next to a pair of brown geldings. He glanced up at Roog when he appeared. He’d tied his dark hair back in a loose bun; some tendrils fell around his pale face, matching the dusky bruises under his eye.  
  
“All right, all right, I’m not going anywhere,” Roog said, shaking himself out of the guards’ grasp. He looked at Rahal, noting the stiff line of his back and the tight set of his mouth. “You okay? They didn’t hurt you?”  
  
Rahal nodded wordlessly and glanced away again. One of the guards pushed Roog hard in the shoulder, toward the geldings.  
  
“Get in the saddle,” he barked. “The two of you ride single-file. We’ll ride ahead. Those two—” He jerked his thumb at two other guards who were hovering nearby. “—ride behind.”  
  
Roog ignored the guard. “Where are we going?”  
  
Rahal looked at him like he’d just given birth to a set of DoReMi elf triplets. “I was thinking Armes.”  
  
“Why Armes?”  
  
“It’s the fastest way out of the country, and if we need anything, we can always appeal to Shula.”  
  
Roog nodded. It made sense. But then, Rahal rarely did anything that didn’t make sense. “Well, it wasn’t my first choice, but I can live with it.”  
  
Rahal’s eye widened. “You’re coming with me?”  
  
“I’m not about to let you go into exile alone,” Roog said. “And I don’t want to be alone either. So yeah, I’m coming with you.”  
  
“Move your ass,” the guard growled, shoving him again.  
  
He’d hoped to talk to Rahal during the ride, but that would be impossible unless they shouted—and he didn’t want the prince’s men to overhear the conversation he’d had in mind. Resigned, he hoisted himself into the saddle and settled in for the long journey—for his last goodbye to Falena, and for his new life in Armes.


End file.
